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ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


-morm+ 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


ILLUSTRATED. 


CHICAGO : 

NATIONAL  LIBRARY  ASSOCIATION. 


COPYRIGHT  SECURED  18*^ 


•  J   j  v  vv'vWvSf'^  i^viy  ,-y»  '•  • 


PACE. 

A.DDRESS  TO  THE   QUEEN i 

l»OEMS  AND  SONGS.     (Published  A.  D.  ^1830) 3 

CUtribcl  (A  Medley) 5 

Nothing  will   D*e 6 

All  Thingi  will  Die 7 

The  Kraken 8 

Lilian. 9 

Isabel i*j 

Mariana il 

To 14 

Madeline 15 

We  are  Free 16 

Songs— The  Owl '. 17 

nd  Song  to  the  Same 17 

Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights 18 

Ode  to  Memory.     Addressed  to 23 

Song — "  A  Spirit  haunts  the  year's  last  hours  *' 27 

The  Poet js 

The  Poe's  Mind 30 

Sea  Fairies 31 

To  J.  M.  K   32 

The  Deserved  1  louse 33 

A  Dirge. 34 

A  Character.  ...      36 

Adeline 37 

Supposed  Confessions  of  a  second-rate  Sensitive  Mind  not  in  Unity  with  Itself. ...  39 

to  Leander   44 

The  Burial  of  Love 46 

The  Mystic 47 

Elegiacs 48 

The  Dying  Swan      49 

The  Ballad  of  Oriana 50 

The  Merman 53 

The  Mermaid 54 

Circumstance 55 

Love  and  Death 56 

To  Juliet 56 

Timbuctoo 57 

The  Grasshopper 63 


fv.  CONTENTS. 


To  a  Lady  Sleeping 6^ 

Chorus  (In  an  unpublished  drama,  written  very  early) 65 

National  Song 66 

English  War  Song 67 

Love 68 

The  "How"  and  the  "Why" 70 

Of   filoureq ji 

Dualisms . 72 

Love,  Pride  and  Forgetfulness 73 

Lost  Hope 73 

Love  and  Sorrow 74 

Sonnets: 

"  The  lintwhite  and  the  throstlecock  " 75 

"  Though  Night  hath  climb'd  her  peak  of  highest  noon  " 76 

"  Shall  the  hag  Evil  die  with  child  of  Good  " 76 

"  F  the  glooming  light" 77 

v.     "Could  I  outwear  my  present  state  of  woe" 77 

vi.    "  The  pallid  thunderstricken  sigh  of  gain  " 78 

vii.  "  Every  day  hath  its  night " 78 

viii.  The  Tears  of  Heaven 79 

POEMS  AND  SONGS.     (Published  A.  D.  1832) 81 

O   The  Lady  of  Shalott 83 

Mariana  in  the  South 90 

Eleanore 93 

<S^The  Miller's  Daughter 97 

Fatima 104 

CEnone * 105 

The  Sisters 113 

To  ,  (with  the  following  poem) , ....  114 

The  Palace  of  Art 115 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere 125 

The  May  Queen 128 

New  Year's  Eve 130 

Conclusion 132 

The  Lotos-Eaters 135 

Choric  Song 137 

A  Dream  of  Fair  Women 141 

Margaret 151 

The  Blackbird 153 

The  Goose 154 

O  Darling  Room 156 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year 157 

To  J S 158 

Freedom 161 

You  Ask  Me  Why 162 

Love  Thou  Thy  Land 163 

A  Fragment 166 

No  More 167 

Anacreontics 167 

?OEMS  AND  SONGS.    (Published  A.  D.  1833) 169 

The  Hesperides 171 

Rosalind 174 


CONTENTS. 


To 176 

Kate 177 

Sonnkts: 

i.       "  Mine  be  the  strength  of  spirit  full  and  free" 178 

ii.      Who  Can  Say 179 

iii.     To  Christopher  North 179 

iv.     "  Caressed  or  chidden  by  the  slender  hand" 179 

v.      Poland 1S0 

vi.     "  How  long,  O  God,  shall  men  be  ridden  down" 1S0 

vii.    **  Wan  Sculptor,  weepest  thou  to  take  the  cast  " 180 

viii.  "  Me  my  own  fate  to  lasting  sorrow  doometh  " iSi 

ix.    "  Check  every  outflash,  every  ruder  sally  " 181 

x.      Alexander 182 

xi.     Bonaparte 182 

xii.  To 183 

xiii.  "  The  form,  the  form  alone  is  eloquent!  " 183 

xiv.  "  O  bridesmaid,  ere  the  happy  knot  was  tied  " 183 

xv.  "  O  beauty,  passing  beauty,  sweetest  sweet  " 184 

xvi.  "  But  were  I  loved  as  I  desire  to  be  " 184 

ENGLISH  IDYLS  AND  OTHER  POEMS.     (Published  A.  D.  1842) 185 

The  Epic 187 

t^Morte  D'Arthur 188 

The  Gardener's  Daughter;  or,  The  Pictures 197 

^Dora 204 

Audley  Court 210 

^Walking  to  the  Mail 213 

Edwin  Morris;  or,  The  Lake 216 

St.  Simeon  Stylites 221 

The  Talking  Oak 227 

Love  and  Duty 237 

The  Golden  Y  ear 240 

OUtysws 243 

Come  Not,  When  I  am  Dead 245 

Locksley  Hail 246 

Godiva 255 

The  Two  Voices 258 

The  Day-Dream 272 

Prologue 272 

The  Sleeping  Palace 273 

The  Sleeping  Beauty 274 

The  Arrival 275 

The  Revival 276 

The  Departure 278 

Moral 279 

L'Envoi 279 

Epilogue 281 

Amphion 281 

Will  Waterproofs  Lyrical  Monologue 284 

To  E.  L.,  on  his  travels  in  Greece 291 

Lady  Clare , 292 

Sir  Galahad 296 

St.  Agnes'  Eve 299 

To ,  after  reading  a  Life  and  Letters 300 

The  Lord  of  Burleigh 302 


CONTENTS. 


The  Poet's  Song 304 

Edward  Gray 305 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 307 

The  Eagle 308 

The  Beggar  Maid 309 

A  Farewell 310 

The  Vision  of  Sin 311 

Move  Eastward,  Happy  Earth 0 .  317 

"  Break,  break,  break  " , 318 

THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY.     (Published  A.  D.  1847, 319 

Prologue 321 

Conclusion 401 

IN  MEMORIAM  A.  H.  H.     (Published  in  1850) 4ot 

ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF   THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON 505 

MAUD  AND  OTHER  POEMS.     (Published  in  1855) 513 

Maud:  A  Monodrama 515 

The  Brook.  (An  Idyl) 554 

The   Daisy  (written  at  Edinburgh) 562 

To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice 566 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 568 

will :  570 

V  The  Grandmother . ....... 571 

The  Letters 574 

IDYLS  OF   THE  KING.     (Published  in  1858)., 577 

Dedication 579 

Enid 5S1 

Vivien 627 

Elaine 649 

Guinevere ,.. 685 

ENOCH  ARDEN.     (Published  in  1864) 705 

OCCASIONAL  POEMS  AND  SONGS 733 

Aylmer's  Field.      (1793) 735 

Sea  Dreams 757 

Northern  Farmer — Old    Style 765 

Northern  Farmer — New  Style 767 

Requiescat 769 

Tithonus , 770 

The  Voyage 772 

Lucretius 775 

The  Higher   Pantheism , 782 

The  New  Timon  and  the  Poets 783 

The  Skipping-Rope .  „. 784 

On  a  Mourner 785 

The  Flower 786 

The  Captain.     (A  Legend  of   the  Navy) 787 

The  Ringlet 789 

The  Islet 791 


fox  TENTS.  Vll. 


Wages 79J 

The  Victim 793 

The   Sailor   Boy    ftg 

After-Thought 796 

Ode  Sung  a*  the  Opening  of  the   International  Exhibition 797 

Sonnet  to  William  Charlea  Macreadj 79S 

Stanza* 799 

The  Third  of  February,  [85a 799 

Britons,  Guard  Your  Own 801 

Hands   All    Round 803 

Tl  ie  War 805 

A  Welcome  to  Alexandra  (March  7,  1S63) 806 

England  and  America  in  17S2 807 

Spiteful   Letter 808 

A  1  dedication 809 

1S65-1S66 - 809 

In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz 810 

g  — '  -Lady,  let  the  rolling  drums  " 810 

— "  Home  they  brought  him  slain  with  spears" 810 

EXPERIMENTS: 

Boadkea 811 

In  Quantity 814 

Milton ; 814 

Specimen  of  a  Translation  of  the  Iliad  in  blank  verse 816 

nil.   WINDOW,  OR  THE  SONGS  OF  THE  WRENS 819 

On  (he   Hill 821 

A t  the  Window 822 

Gone 822 

Winter 823 

Spring 823 

The   Letter 824 

\nswer 825 

\nswer 825 

The    Answer 826 

When? 827 

Marriage  Morning : 827 

DESPAIR.     (Published  A.  D.  1881) 829 

nil:  CHARGE  OF   THE   HEAVY    HRIGADE  AT  1JALAKLAVA 833 


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PORTRAIT  OF  ALFRED  TENNYSON Frontispiece 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  QUEEN. 

Ornamental  Title xv 

Illustrated  Heading i 

'OEMS  AND  SONGS.     (Published  A.  D.  1830.) 

Ornamental  Title . .   3 

Claribel. 

"  But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sigheth  " 5 

Lilian 9 

Mariana. 

She  wept,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

O  God,  that  I  were  dead !" 13 

The  Owl 17 

vtecollections  of  the  arabian  nlghts. 

Illustrated  Heading 18 

"  Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  thro' 

The  low  and  bloomed  foliage  " 18 

"  Bearing  on  my  shallop  thro'  the  star-strown  calm  " 19 

"  Then  stole  I  up,  and  trancedly 

Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone  " 21 

Ode  to  Memory. 

"  The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four 

That  stand  beside  my  father's  door  " 24 

«*  Pour  round  mine  ears  the  livelong  bleat 
Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wattled  folds  " 25 

The  Poet's  Mind. 

"  From  the  brain  of  the  purple  mountain 
Which  stands  in  the  distance  yonder  " yj 

Sea  Fairies. 

Illustrated  Heading '. 31 

The  Deserted  House. 

"Thro'  the  windows  we  shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 
Of  the  dark  deserted  house    .* 33 

A  Dirge. 

Illustrated  Heading * 34 

Adeline. 
M  Wherefore  those  dim  looks  of  thine 

Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  ?" 37 

"  Hast  thou  looked  upon  the  breath 38 

Of  the  lilies  at  sunrise?" 

Supposed  Confessions. 

"  The  lamb  rejoiceth  in  the  year, 
And  raceth  freely  with  his  fere" ,  , 43 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Hero  to  Leander. 

44  No  Western  odors  wander 

On  the  black  and  moaning  sea" 45 

The  Dying  Swan. 

"  With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 
Adown  it  floated  a  dying  swan  " 49 

The  Mermaid <54 

The  GllASSHOPPl  k. 

Flower  Ornament 64 

National  Son.. 

Armsof  Gre;tt  Britain 66 

Lov  1  . 

Illustrated  Heading 6S 

The  "  How  "  and  tiii:  "Why." 

44  Why  the  heavy  oak  grows,  and  the  white  willows  sigh  ?" 70 

44  The  little  bird  pipeth— why  ?  why  ?" 71 

Dualisms. 
44  Over  a  stream  two  birds  of  glancing  feather 
Do  woo  each  other,  carolling  together  " 72 

Sonnets. 

44  The  lintwhite  and  the  throstlecock" 75 

44  Showering  down  the  glory  of  lightsome  day" 79 

POEMS  AND  SONGS.     (Published  A.  D.  1S30.) 

Ornamental  Title 81 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

44  When  the  moon  was  overhead, 

Came  two  young  lovers,  lately  wed  * 85 

44  Thick- jewelld  shone  the  saddle-leather." 86 

44  Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide  " 87 

Mariana  in  the  South. 

r  bird  would  sing,  nor  lamb  would  bleat" 91 

Eleanore. 

44  Thunder-clouds     .     .     .    grow  golden  all  about  the  sky  " 95 

The  Miller's   Daughter. 

The  Miller's  Daughter 97 

44  Each  morn  my  sleep  was  broken  thro' 

By  some  wild  skylark's  matin  song" 98 

CEnonk. 

44  Hear  me  O  earth,  hear  me  O  hilte, 

O  caves  " 106 

44  Then  to  the  bower  they  came 
Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth-swarded  bower, 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like  fire  " 113 

The  Palace  of  Art. 

44  The  iron  coast  and  angry  waves  " 117 

44  Uther's  deeply  wounded  son  watched  by  weeping  queens  " 1 19 

44  The  reapers  at  their  sultry  toil  " 120 

Lady  Clara  Verb  de  Vere. 
44  You  pine  among  your  halls  and  towers  " 127 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


The  May  Queen. 

Butterfly  and  Roses  1 2S 

<:  You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear  " 129 

"  Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made  me  Queen  of  May  " 1 30 

"  I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listen'd  in  my  bed  " 133 

The  Mother,  Effie  and  Robin 134 

The  Lotos  Eaters. 

"  This  mountain  wave  will  roll  us  shoreward  soon  " 135 

"  The  charmed  sunset  linger'd  low  adown 

In  the  red  West:  thro'  mountain  clefts  the  dale  " 136 

A  Dream  of  Fair  Women. 

"  Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along  the  level  sand  " 142 

"  A  queen  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold  black  e\  es" 145 

u  I  died  a  Queen.     The  Roman  soldier  found 

Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my  brows  " 146 

"  All  night  the  splinter'd  crags  that  wall  the  dell 

With  spires  of  silver  shine  " 147 

"  Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying  flame, 

And  thunder  on  the  everlasting  hills  " 149 

Joan  of  Arc 150 

The  Blackbird. 

"  Blackbird,  sing  me  something  well  " 153 

The  Goose. 

"  The  goose  flew  this  way  and  flew  that, 

And  filled  the  house  with  clamor  '' J.55 

POEMS  AND  SONGS.     (Published  A.  D.  1833.) 

Ornamental  Title 169 

To  . 

"  And  when  the  sappy  field  and  wood" 176 

Kate. 

Illustrated  Heading 177 

Sonnet,  xi. 

Bonaparte 184 

ENGLISH  IDYLS  AND  OTHER  POEMS.    (Published  A.  D.  1842.) 

Ornamental  Title 185 

Morte  D'Arthur. 

1 '  An  arm 

Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake  " , 189 

"  But  when  I  looked  again,  behold  an  arm 

Cloth'd  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful  " 192 

"  But  she  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 

And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 

And  call'd  him  by  his  name". * 194 

THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER  ;  or,  The  Pictures. 
"  He  cried,  4  Look!  look!'     Before  he  ceased  I  turn'd 

And,  ere  a  star  can  wink,  beheld  her  there  " 200 

"  Ah,  one  rose, 
One  rose,  but  one,  by  those  fair  fingers  cull'd  " 201 

Dora. 

u  I  will  not  marry  Dora  " 205 

"  Then  they  clung  about 
The  old  man's  neck,  and  kiss'd  him  many  times  " « .  209 


LIST  OF   /LLCsr/tAT/OXS.  xl. 


Edwin  Morris;  or,  the  Lake. 

u  I  was  a  tketcher  then: 
See  here,  my  doing:  curves  of  mountain,  bridge, 

Boat,  island,  ruin*  of  a  castle  " 216 

44  And  now  we  left 
The  clerk  behind  us,  I  and  he,  and  ran 

By  ripply  shallows  of  the  lisping  lake  " 217 

44  The  prime  swallow  dips  his  wing" 220 

Talking  Oak. 

The  maiden  in  her  teens 229 

4  4  O  yes,  she  wandered  round  and  round 

These  knotted  km  es  of  mine  " 232 

1  1  we  the  moulder'd  Abbey-walls  " 233 

44  As  when  1  see  the  woodman  lift 

1  lis  a\«.-  to  |laj  my  kin  " 135 

Phi  (ioi.m  \  Viak. 

M  Fly,  happy,  happy  sails  " 2^1 

High  above  I  heard  them  blast 
The  steep  slate  quarry,  and  the  great  echo  flap 
And  buffet  round  the  hills  from  bluff  to  bluff*1 242 

I  rLTSSBS, 

44  There  lies  the  port ;  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail  " 244 

Likksley  Hall. 

44  My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  speak  the  truth  to  me  " 247 

44  And  our  spirits  rushed  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips  ' 24'S 

"  Nature  brings  thee  solace;  for  a  tender  voice  will  cry  " 250 

GODIVA. 

44  Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower,  and  there 

Unclasp'd  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt  " 256 

The  Day- Dream.  * 

44  My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap  " 277 

Amphion. 
44  Young  ashes  pirouetted  down, 

Coquetting  with  young  beeches  " 281 

To  E.  L.,  on  his  Travels  in  Greece. 

44  For  me  the  torrent  ever  pour'd  " 290 

Lady  Clark. 

Illustrated  Heading 292 

44  It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow  " 293 

44  The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had  brought 

Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay  " 294 

Sir  Galahad. 

44  Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean  " 297 

St.  Agnes'  Evi  . 
4*  Deep  on  the  convent  roof  the  snows 
Are  •parkling  to  the  moon  " 299 

The  Poets'  Son.,. 

44  And  the  nightingale  thought,  4  I  have  sung  many  songs  '  " 304 

Edward  Gray. 
41  .Sweet  Emma  Moreland  spoke  to  me: 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away  " 305 


xii.  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


The  Eagle. 

"  He  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked  hands  "     ... 308 

The  Beggar  Maid. 

"  Barefooted  came  the  beggar  maid  " * 309 

A  Farewell. 

"A  rivulet,  then  a  river" 310 

"  Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  sea!  " 318 

THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY.     (Published  A.  D.  1847.) 

Ornamental  Title 319 

And  echo,  like  a  ghostly  woodpecker 326 

"  High-arch'd  and  ivy-claspt, 

Of  finest  Gothic  lighter  than  a  fire" 328 

"  Thro'  the  wild  woods  that  hung  about  the  town  " 336 

"And  all  about  us  peal'd  the  nightingale  " .  332 

•*  A  boat 

Tacks,  and  the  slacken'd  sail  flaps  " 337 

"The  creature  laid  his  muzzle  on  your  lap" 340 

"The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  " 354 

"There  sinks  the  nebulous  star  we  call  the  sun  " 355 

"  Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead  " 382 

"Come  down,  O  maid,  from  yonder  mountain  height" 397 

"A  bird 

That  early  woke  to  feed  her  little  ones  " 400 

"  The  walls 

Blacken'd  about  us,  bats  wheel'd,  and  owls  whoop'd 404 

IN  MEMORIAM.     (Published  A.  D.  1850.) 

Ornamental  Title 405 

"And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills  " 420 

"  And  one  is  sad ;  her  note  is  changed, 

Because  her  brood  is  stol'n  away  " 424 

"  But  I  should  turn  mine  ears  and  hear 

The  moanings  of  the  homeless  sea  " 430 

"  Or  seal'd  within  the  iron  hills  " 440 

"  Beside  the  river's  wooded  reach  " 450 

"  Ere  these  have  clothed  their  branchy  bowers  " 456 

*'  The  primrose  of  the  later  year  " ,    462 

"  And  thou,  with  all  thy  breadth  and  height 

Of  foliage,  towering  sycamore  " 465 

"And  the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field  " 472 

"  On  yon  swollen  brook  that  bubbles  fast " 475 

"  Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky  ".. 481 

"  And  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea  " 486 

"  Bright  Phosphor,  fresher  for  the  night, 

By  thee  the  world's  great  work  is  heard  " . 492 

"  I  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run ; 
Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 

And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair  " 497 

"  Her  sweet  '  I  will,'  has  made  ye  one  " 500 

ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON.     (Published  in  1853.) 

The  Duke  of  Wellington 504 

"  Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew  " 507 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS.  xin. 


MAUD  AND  OTHER  POEMS.     (Published  A.  D.  1855.) 

Ornamental  Title 513 

"The  dark  old  place  will  be  gilt  by  the  touch  of  a  millionaire  " 517 

44  Morning  arises  stormy  and  pale, 

And  the  budded  peaks  of  the  wood  are  bow'd  " 52 1 

a  Birds  in  our  woods  sang" 528 

•'The  rivulet  on  from  the  lawn 

Running  down  to  my  own  dark  wood  " 531 

44  The  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 

And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown" 540 

"  In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 

Of  the  old  manorial  hall  " 548 

The  Brook.    (An  Idyl.) 

■  Here,  by  this  brook,  we  parted  " 554 

44 1  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern" 555 

44 1  chatter  over  stony  ways  " 556 

44  In  copse  and  fern 

Twinkled  the  innumerable  ear  and  tail" 559 

44  Not  by  the  well-known  stream  and  rustic  spire, 

But  unfamiliar  Arno,  and  the  dome  " ." 560 

44  We  bought  the  farm  we  tenanted  before  " 561 

The  Daisy. 

44  A  mouldered  citadel  on  the  coast  "   562 

44  A  thousand  shadowy -pencil'd  valleys  " 564 

To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice. 

"Pay  one  visit  here" 567 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade. 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 568 

44  Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell  " 569 

The  Letters. 

44  And  gave  my  letters  back  to  me  " 575 

44  Low  breezes  fann'd  the  belfry  bars  " 576 

IDYLS  OF  THE  KING.     (Published  A.  D.  1858.) 

Ornamental   Title 577 

Enid 581 

44  And  thither  came  Geraint,  and  underneath 

Beheld  the  long  street  of  a  little  town  " 587 

M  1  lore  by  God's  rood  is  the  one  maid  for  me" 590 

44  About  her  hollow  turret,  pluck 'd  the  grass     .     .     . 

Wove  and  unwove  it     .     .     .     " 609 

Vivien. 

44  And  pushing  his  black  craft  among  them  all, 

He  lightly  scatter'd  theirs,  and  brought  her  off" 637 

44  She  ceased,  and  made  her  lithe  arm  around  his  neck  " 639 

Elain  i 

Ornamental  Title 649 

"  Steer'd  by  the  dumb  went  upward  with  the  flood  " 676 

Guinevere 685 

44  Himself  beheld  three  spirits  mad  with  joy 

Come  dashing  down  on  a  tall  wayside  flower  " , 692 

ENOCH  ARDEN.    (Published  A.  D.  1864.) 

Ornamental  Title 705 

"  Cared  not  to  look  on  any  human  face, 

But  turn'd  her  own  toward  the  wall  and  wept " 714 


xiv.  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


"'Let  me  rest,'  she  said:" 717 

"  The  ship  Good  Fortune,  tho'  at  setting  forth 

The  Biscay,  roughly  riding  eastward,  shook  " 721 

"Thus  over  Enoch's  early-silvering  head 
The  sunny  and  rainy  seasons  came  and  went 

Year  after  year "   724 

"  '  Did  you  know  Enoch  Arden,  of  this  town ?'" 730 

"  So  past  the  strong  heroic  soul  away  " 732 

OCCASIONAL  POEMS  AND  SONGS. 

Ornamental  Title 733 

Aylmer's  Field. 

"  Somewhere  beneath  his  own  low  range  of  roofs  * 736 

"  A  summer  burial  deep  in  hollyhock ; 

Each,  its  own  charm;  and  Edith's  everywhere  " 739 

<:  Fetch'd  his  richest  beeswing  from  a  bin  reserv'd  " 745 

"  Never  since  our  bad  earth  became  one  sea" 751 

Sea  Dreams. 

"  A  wreck,  a  wreck!  " , 758 

"  And  near  the  light  a  giant  woman  sat " 761 

The  Voyage. 

"  We  past  long  lines  of  Northern  capes  " , . 773 

Lucretius. 

"  The  bird  makes  his  heart  voice  amid  the  blaze  of  flowers  " 777 

The  Captain. 

"  Spars  were  splintered,  decks  were  shattered  'V ........  t 788 

The  Islet. 
"  A  mountain  islet  pointed  and  peak'd  " .• ....  791 

Sung  at  the  Opening  of  the  International  Exhibition. 

"  And  crown'd  with  all  her  flowers  " 799 

The  Third  of  February,  1852. 
"  Better  the  waste  Atlantic  roll'd  " , 8oq 

1  i  Welcome  to  Alexandra. 

"  Roll  as  a  ground-swell  dash'd  on  the  strand  " 806 

"  Break,  happy  land,  into  earlier  flowers  " 807 

Boadicea. 

"  While  I  roved  about  the  forest,  long  and  bitterly  meditating  " 812 

In  Quantity. 

"Like  the  skater  on  ice  that  hardly  bears  him  " 815 

Specimen  of  a  Translation  of  the  Iliad  in  Blank  Verse. 

"  As  when  in  heaven  the  stars  about  the  moon 

Look  beautiful  " 81& 

THE  WINDOW;  OR,  THE  SONGS  OF  THE  WRENS. 

Ornamental  Title 0 , ,.  819 

"  Rose,  rose  and  clematis, 

Drop  me  a  flower  to  kiss  " 822 

"We'll  be  birds  of  a  feather" 824 

"Be  merry,  all  birds,  to-day" . .  825 

"  Be  merry  in  heaven,  O  larks  " 826 

u  O  the  woods  and  the  meadows" % 828 

DESPAIR.    (Published  A.  D.  1881.) 

Ornamental  Title • ^.. 8m 


TO  TP  QHEEIJ 


TO   THE   QUEEN. 


REVERED,  beloved— O  you  that  hold 

A  nobler  office  upon  earth 
$hg       Than  arms,  or  power  of  brain,  or  birth 
Could  give  the  warrior  kings  of  old. 

Victoria,  since  your  Royal  grace 
To  one  of  less  desert  allows 
This  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 

Of  him  that  utter'd  nothing  base; 

And  should  your  greatness,  and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  empire,  yield  you  time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhyme 

If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there; 

Then,  while  a  sweeter  music  wakes, 

And  thro1  wild  March  the  throstle  calls, 
Where  all  about  your  palace-walls 

The  sun-lit  almond-blossom  shakes — 

Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  song; 

For  tho'  the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 

In  vacant  chambers,  I  could  trust 
Your  kindness.     May  you  rule  us  long, 

And  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 

As  noble  till  the  latest  day! 

May  children  of  our  children  say, 
"  She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good; 


TO    THE   QUEEN, 


March,  1851 


"  Her  court  was  pure ;   her  life  serene ; 

God  gave  her  peace;  her  land  reposed; 

A  thousand  claims  to  reverence  closed 
In  her  as  Mother,  Wife,  and  Queen; 

;And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 

Who  knew  the  seasons,  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 

The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  yet 

"  By  shaping  some  august  decree, 

Which  kept  her  throne  unshaken  still, 
Broad  based  upon  the  people's  will, 

And  compassed  by  the  inviolate  sea." 


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But  the  solmn  oak-tree  sigheth." 


CLARIBEL. 


CLARIBEL. 


A     MKLODY. 


IERE  Claribel  low-lieth 
The  breezes  pause  and  die, 

Letting  the  rose  leaves  fall: 
But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sigheth, 

Thick-leaved,  ambrosial, 
With  an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony, 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


ii. 


At  eve  the  beetle  boometh 

Athwart  the  thicket  lone: 
At  noon  the  wild  bee  hummeth 

About  the  moss'd  headstone: 
At  midnight  the  moon  cometh, 

And  looketh  down  alone. 
Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelleth, 
The  clear-voiced  mavis  dwelleth, 

The  callow  throstle  lispeth, 
The  slumberous  wave  outwelleth, 

The  babbling  runnel  crispeth, 
The  hollow  grot  replieth 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


NOTHING  WILL  DIE. 


NOTHING    WILL  DIE. 


HEN  will  the  streams  be  aweary  of  flowing 
Under  my  eye? 
When  will  the  wind  be  aweary  of  blowing 
Over  the  sky  ? 
When  will  the  clouds  be  aweary  of  fleeting? 
When  will  the  heart  be  aweary  of  beating? 
And  nature  die? 
Never!  oh!  never!  nothing  will  die. 
The  stream  flows, 
The  wind  blows, 
The  cloud  fleets, 
The  heart  beats, 
Nothing  will  die. 
Nothing  will  die; 
All  things  will  change 
Through  eternity. 
'Tis  the  world's  winter; 
Autumn  and  summer 
Are  gone  long  ago; 
Earth  is  dry  to  the  center, 
But  spring,  a  new  comer, 
A  spring  rich  and  strange, 
Shall  make  the  winds  blow 
Round  and  round, 
Thro'  and  thro', 
Here  and  there, 
Till  the  air 
And  the  ground 
Shall  be  fill'd  with  life  anew. 


The  world  was  never  made; 

It  will  change,  but  it  will  not  fade. 

So  let  the  wind  range; 

For  even  and  morn 

Ever  will  be 

Thro'  eternity. 
Nothing  was  born; 
Nothing  will  die; 
All  things  will  change. 


ALL  7Y/AV06    HILL  DIE. 


ALL    THINGS    WILL   DIE. 


LEARLY  the  blue  river  chimes  in  its  flowing 
Under  my  eye; 
Warmly  and  broadly  the  south  winds  are  blowing 

Over  the  sky. 
One  after  another  the  white  clouds  are  fleeting; 
Every  heart  this  May  morning  in  joyance  is  beating 
Full  merrily; 
Yet  all  things  must  die. 
The  stream  will  cease  to  flow; 
The  wind  will  cease  to  blow; 
The  clouds  will  cease  to  fleet; 
The  heart  will  cease  to  beat; 
For  ail  things  must  die. 


All  things  must  die. 
Spring  will  come  never  more. 

Oh!  vanity! 
Death  waits  at  the  door. 
See!  our  friends  are  all  forsaking 
The  wine  and   merrymaking. 
We  are  called  —we  must  go. 
Laid  low,  very  low, 
In  the  dark  we  must  lie. 
The  meny  glees  are  still ; 
The  voice  of  the  bird 
Shall  no  more  be  heard, 
Nor  the  wind  on  the  hill. 

Oh!  misery! 
Hark!  death  is  calling 
While  I  speak  to  ye, 
The  jaw  is  falling, 
The  red  cheek  paling, 
The  strong  limbs  failing; 
Ice  with  the  warm  blood  mixing} 
The  eyeballs  fixing. 
Nine  times  goes  the  passing  bell: 
Ye  merry  souls,  farewell. 


THE  KRAKEN. 


The  old  earth 

Had  a  birth, 

As  all  men  know, 

Long  ago. 

And  the  old  earth  must  die.. 
So  let  the  warm  winds  range, 
And  the  blue  wave  beat  the  shore ; 
For  even  and  morn 
Ye  will  never  see 
Thro'  eternity. 
All  things  were  born. 
Ye  will  come  never  more, 
For  all  things  must  die. 


Tz&mw*®^ 


THE  KRAKEN. 


ELOW  the  thunders  of  the  upper  deep; 
Far,  far  beneath  in  the  abysmal  sea, 
His  ancient,  dreamless,  uninvaded  sleep 
The  Kraken  sleepeth:  faintest  sunlights  flee 
About  his  shadowy  sides:  above  him  swell 
Huge  sponges  of  millennial  growth  and  height; 
And  far  away  into  the  sickly  light, 
From  many  a  wondrous  grot  and  secret  cell 
Unnumbered  and  enormous  polypi 
Winnow  with  giant  fans  the  slumbering  green. 
There  hath  he  lain  for  ages  and  will  lie 
Battening  upon  huge  seaworms  in  his  sleep, 
Until  the  latter  fire  shall  heat  the  deep; 
Then  once  by  man  and  angels  to  be  seen, 
In  roaring  he  shall  rise  and  on  the  surface  die. 


LILIAN. 


LILIAN. 


LILIAN. 


IRY,  fairy  Lilian, 

Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 
When  I  ask  her  if  she  love  me, 
Clasps  her  tiny  hands  above  me, 
Laughing  all  she  can; 
She'll  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me, 
Cruel  little  Lilian. 

ii. 

When  my  passion  seeks 
Pleasance  in  love-sighs, 
She,  looking  thro'  and  thro'  me 
Thoroughly  to  undo  me, 

Smiling,  never  speaks: 
Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 
So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple, 
From  beneath  her  gather'd  wimple 
Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes, 
The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks; 
Then  away  she  flies. 


in. 


Pry  thee  weep,  May  Lilian! 
Gayety  without  eclipse 

Wearieth  me,  May  Lilian: 
Thro'  my  very  heart  it  thrillelh 

When  from  crimson-threaded  lips 
Silver-treble  laughter  trilleth 

Prythee  weep,  May  Lilian. 


IV. 

Praying  all  I  can, 
If  prayers  will  not  hush  thee, 

Airy  Lilian, 
Like  a  rose-leaf  I  will  crush  thee, 

Fairy  Lilian. 


10 


ISABEL. 


ISABEL. 


t  YES  not  down-dropped  nor  over-bright,  but  fed 
With  the  clear-pointed  flame  of  chastity, 
Clear,  without  heat,  undying,  tended  by 

Pure  vestal  thoughts  in  the  translucent  fane 
Of  her  still  spirit;  locks  not  wide  disprcad, 
Madonna-wise  on  either  side  her  head ; 
Sweet  lips,  whereon  perpetually  did  reign 
The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity, 
Were  fixed  shadows  of  thy  fixed  mood, 

Revered  Isabel,  the  crown  and  head, 
The  stately  flower  of  female  fortitude, 

Of  perfect  wifehood,  and  pure  lovvlihead. 


ii. 

The  intuitive  decision  of  a  bright 

And  thorough-edged  intellect  to  part 

Error  from  crime;  a  prudence  to  withhold; 

The  laws  of  marriage  character'd  in  gold 
Upon  the  blanched  tablets  of  her  heart; 
A  love  still  burning  upward,  giving  light 
To  read  those  laws;  an  accent  very  low 
In  blandishment,  but  a  most  silver  flow 

Of  subtle-paced  counsel  in  distress, 
Right  to  the  heart  and  brain,  tho'  undescried, 

Winning  its  way  with  extreme  gentleness 
Thro'  all  the  outworks  of  suspicious  pride; 
A  courage  to  endure  and  to  obey; 
A  hate  of  gossip  parlance,  and  of  sway, 
Crown'd  Isabel,  thro'  all  her  placid  life, 
The  queen  of  marriage,  a  most  perfect  wife. 


in. 


The  mellowed  reflex  of  a  winter  moon; 
A  clear  stream  flowing  with  a  muddy  one, 
Till  in  its  onward  current  it  absorbs 

With  swifter  movement  and  in  purer  light 


MARIANA. 


11 


The  vexed  eddies  of  its  wayward  brother: 
A  leaning  and  upbearing  parasite, 

Clothing  the  stem,  which  else  had  fallen  quite 
With  clustered  flower-bells  and  ambrosial  orbs 
Of  rich  fruit-bunches  leaning  on  each  other — 
Shadow  forth  thee : — the  world  hath  not  another 
(Tho*  all  her  fairest  forms  are  types  of  thee, 
And  thou  of  God  in  thy  great  charity) 
Of  such  a  finished,  chastened  purity. 


MARIANA. 


Mariana  in  the  moated  grange." — Measure  for  Measure. 


ITH  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 

Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all: 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  peach  to  the  gable  wall. 
The  broken  sheds  looked  sad  and  strange 

Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch; 

Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said, "  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead !" 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even; 

Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried; 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven, 

Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 
After  the  flitting  of  the  bats, 

When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the  sky, 
She  drew  her  casement  curtain  by, 
And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats. 
She  only  said,  "  The  night  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead !" 


VZ  MARIANA. 


Upon  the  middle  of  the  night, 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl  crow; 
The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light: 

From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 
Came  to  her:  without  hope  of  change, 
In  sleep  she  seemed  to  -walk  forlorn, 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed  morn 
About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "  The  day  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary 
I  would  that  I  were  dead !" 

About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 

A  sluice  with  blacken'd  waters  slept, 
And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small, 

The  cluster'd  marish-mosses  crept. 
Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  alway, 

All  silver-green  with  gnarled  bark: 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 
She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  awear}',  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead !" 

And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low, 

And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and  away, 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro, 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  the  moon  was  very  low, 

And  wild  winds  bound  within  their  cell, 
The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said,  "  The  night  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead !" 


All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 

The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creak'd; 

The  blue  fly  sung  in  the  pane;  the  mouse 
Behind  the  mouldering  wainscot  shriek'd, 


MARIANA. 


13 


Or  from  the  crevice  peer'd  about. 

Old  faces  glimmered  through  the  doors, 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors, 
Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 

She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  comcth  not,"  she  said; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead!" 


The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof, 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 
Her  sense;  hut  most  she  loathed  the  hour 
When  the  thick-moated  sunbeam  lay 
Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 
Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 
Then,  said  she,  "  I  am  very  dreary, 

He  will  not  come,"  she  said ; 
She  wept,  u  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
O  God,  that  I  were  dead !" 


u 


TO 


TO 


i. 

LEAR-HEADED  friend,  whose  joyful  scorn, 
Edged  with  sharp  laughter,  cuts  atwain 
The  knots  that  tangle  human  creeds. 
The  wounding  cords  that  bind  and  strain 
The  heart  until  it  bleeds, 
Ray-fringed  eyelids  of  the  morn 

Roof  not  a  glance  so  keen  as  thine: 
If  aught  of  prophecy  be  mine, 
Thou  wilt  not  live  in  vain. 


n. 

Low-cowering  shall  the  Sophist  sit; 

Falsehood  shall  bare  her  plaited  brow: 

Fair-fronted  Truth  shall  droop  not  now 
With  shrilling  shafts  of  subtle  wit. 
Nor  martyr  flames,  nor  trenchant  swords 

Can  do  away  that  ancient  lie; 

A  gentler  death  shall  Falsehood  die, 
Shot  thro'  and  thro'  with  cunning  words. 


in. 


Weak  Truth  a-leaning  on  her  crutch, 

Wan,  wasted  Truth  in  her  utmost  need, 
Thy  kingly  intellect  shall  feed, 
Until  she  be  an  athlete  bold, 

And  weary  with  a  finger's  touch 

Those  writhed  limbs  of  lightning  speed; 

Like  that  strange  angel  which  of  old, 
Until  the  breaking  of  the  light, 

Wrestled  with  wandering  Israel, 

Past  Yabbok  brook  the  livelong  night, 

And  heaven's  mazed  signs  stood  still 
In  the  dim  tract  of  Penuel. 


Madeline. 


15 


MADELINE. 


IOU  art  not  steep'd  in  golden  languors, 
No  tranced  summer  calm  is  thine, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thro'  light  and  shadow  thou  d<>st  range, 
Sudden  glances,  sweet  and  strange, 
Delicious  spites  and  darling  angers, 
And  airy  forms  of  Hitting  change. 


ii. 


Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore. 
Revealings  deep  and  clear  are  thine 
Of  wealthy  smiles:  hut  who  may  know 
Whether  smile  or  frown  he  fleeter? 
Whether  smile  or  frown  he  sweeter, 

Who  may  know  ? 
Frowns  perfect-sweet  along  the  brow 
Light-looming  over  eyes  divine, 
Like  little  clouds  sun-fringed,  are  thine, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thy  smile  and  frown  are  not  aloof 
From  one  another, 
Each  to  each  is  dearest  brother; 
Hues  of  the  silken  sheeny  woof 
Momently  shot  into  each  other. 
All  the  mystery  is  thine; 
Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 


in. 


A  subtle,  sudden  flame, 
By  veering  passion  fann'd, 

About  thee  breaks  and  dances: 
When  T  would  kiss  thy  hand, 
The  flush  of  antrerM  shame 


16  WE  ARE  FREE. 


O'erflows  thy  calmer  glances, 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown: 
But  when  I  turn  away, 
Thou,  willing  me  to  stay, 

Wooest  not,  nor  vainly  wranglest; 

But,  looking  fixedly  the  while, 
All  my  bounding  heart  entanglest 

In  a  golden-netted  smile; 
Then  in  madness  and  in  bliss, 
If  my  lips  should  dare  to  kiss 
Thy  taper  fingers  amorously, 
Again  thou  blushest  angrily; 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown. 


WE  ARE  FREE. 


HE  winds,  as  at  their  hour  of  birth, 
Leaning  upon  the  ridged  sea, 

Breathed  low  around  the  rolling  earth 
With  mellow  prelude,  "  We  are  free." 

The  streams  through  many  a  lilied  row, 
Down-carolling  to  the  crisped  sea, 

Low-tinkled  with  a  bell-like  flow 

Atween  the  blossom,    "  We  are  free." 


KM 

2*RT 


warn? 


V*jfc&* 


THE  OWL. 


SONG— THE  OWL. 


17 


SONG.— THE  OWL. 


HEN  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 
And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 
And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

ii. 

When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch, 

And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown  hay, 

And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the  thatch 

Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay, 

Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay; 

Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 

The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


SECOND  SONG. 

TO   THE    SAME. 
I. 

HY  tuwhits  are  lulPd  I  wot, 

Thy  tuwhoos  of  yesternight, 
Which  upon  the  dark  afloat, 
So  took  echo  with  delight, 
So  took  echo  with  delight, 

That  her  voice  untuneful  grown, 
Wears  all  day  a  fainter  tone. 


I  would  mock  thy  chaunt  anew 

But  I  cannot  mimic  it; 
Not  a  whit  of  thy  tuwhoo, 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 

With  a  lengthen'd  loud  halloo, 
Tuwhoo,  tuwhit,  tuwhit,  tuwhoo-o-o. 


18 


RECOLLECTIONS'  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 


1  i-b  u ...  in.,  i;  M;  H;  tt  ^  ll;  i.r  ii,  i;  1. 1  UTO:  U  U  i  :\k\  i.l  U.  ir  u i  i  ».  u  <  > 


Tl^altaiixms  sf  ifb  jtraima  Tf  igfil 


$. 


I! 


HEN  the  breeze  of  a  joyful  dawn  blew  free 

In  the  silken  sail  of  infancy, 
The  tide  of  time  flowed  back  with  me, 

The  forward-flowing  tide  of  time; 
And  many  a  sheeny  summer  morn, 
Adown  the  Tigris  I  was  borne, 
By  Bagdat's  shrines  of  fretted  gold, 
High-walled  gardens  green  and  old; 
True  Mussulman  was  I  and  sworn, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  thro* 
The  low  and  bloomed  foliage,  drove 
The  fragrant,  glistening  deeps,  and  clove 
The  citron-shadows  in  the  blue: 
By  garden  porches  on  the  brim, 
The  costly  doors  flung  open  wide, 
Gold  glittering  thro'  lamplight  dim, 
And  broidcr'd  sofas  on  each  side: 

In  sooth  it  was  a  goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


Often,  where  clear-stemm'd  platans  guard 

The  outlet,  did  I  turn  away 

The  boat-head  down  a  broad  canal 


'Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  thro, 
The  low  and  hloomed  foliage." 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE   A.  Ml/ AX  NIGHTS. 


19 


From  the  main  river  sluiced,  where  all 
The  sloping  of  the  moon-lit  sward 
Was  damask-work  and  deep  inlay 
Of  braided  blooms  unmown,  which  crept 
Adown  to  where  the  water  slept. 
A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


A  motion  from  the  river  won 
Ridged  the  smooth  level,  bearing  on 
My  shallop  thro'  the  star-strown  calm, 
Until  another  night  in  night 
I  entered,  from  the  clearer  light, 
Imbowercd  vaults  of  pillar'd  palm, 
Imprisoning  sweets,  which  as  they  clomb 
Heavenward,  were  stay'd  beneath  the  dome 
Of  hollow  boughs. — A  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


20  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

Still  onward;  and  the  clear  canal 
Is  rounded  to  as  clear  a  lake. 
From  the  green  rivage  many  a  fall 
Of  diamond  rillets  musical, 
Thro'  little  crystal  arches  low 
Down  from  the  central  fountain's  flow 
Fall'n  silver-chiming,  seem'd  to  shake 
The  sparkling  flints  beneath  the  prow. 
A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Above  thro'  many  a  bowery  turn 
A  walk  with  vary-color'd  shells 
Wander'd  engrain'd.     On  either  side 
All  round  about  the  fragrant  marge 
From  fluted  vase  and  brazen  urn 
In  order,  eastern  flowers  large, 
Some  dropping  low  their  ciimson  bells 
Half-closed,  and  others  studded  wide 
With  disks  and  tiars,  fed  the  time 
With  odor  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Far  off,  and  where  the  lemon-grove 
In  closest  coverture  upsprung, 
The  living  airs  of  middle  nlgnt 
Died  round  the  bulbul  as  he  sung; 
Not  he :  but  something  which  possess'd 
The  darkness  of  the  world,  delight, 
Life,  anguish,  death,  immortal  love, 
Ceasing  not,  mingled,  unrepress'd, 
Apart  from  place,  withholding  time, 
But  flattering  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Black  the  garden-bowers  and  grots 

Slumber'd:  the  solemn  palms  were  ranged 

Above,  unwoo'd  of  summer  wind: 

A  sudden  splendor  from  behind 

Flush'd  all  the  leaves  with  rich  gold-green, 

And,  flowing  rapidly  between 

Their  interspaces,  counterchanged 

The  level  lake  with  diamond-plots 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  21 

Of  dark  and  bright.     A  lovely  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Dark-blue  the  deep  sphere  overhead, 
Distinct  with  vivid  stars  inlaid, 
Grew  darker  from  that  under-flame: 
#So,  leaping  lightly  from  the  boat, 
With  silver  anchor  left  afloat, 
In  marvel  whence  that  glory  came 
Upon  me,  as  in  sleep  I  sank 
In  cool  soft  turf  upon  the  bank, 

Entranced  with  that  place  and  time. 
So  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Thence  thro'  the  garden  I  was  drawn — 
A  realm  of  pleasance,  many  a  mound, 
And  many  a  shadow-chequerVl  lawn 
Full  of  the  city's  stilly  sound, 
And  deep  myrrh-thickets  blowing  round 
The  stately  cedar,  tamarisks, 
Thick  rosaries  of  scented  thorn, 
Tall  orient  shrubs,  and  obelisks 

Graven  with  emblems  of  the  time, 

In  honor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

With  dazed  vision  unawares 
From  the  long  alley's  latticed  shade 
Emerged,  I  came  upon  the  great 
Pavilion  of  the  Caliphat. 
Right  to  the  carven  cedarn  doors, 
Flung  inward  over  spangled  floors, 
Broad-based  flights  of  marble  stairs 
Ran  up  with  golden  balustrade, 

After  the  fashion  of  the  time, 

And  humor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

The  fourscore  windows  all  alight 
As  with  the  quintessence  of  flame, 
A  million  tapers  flaring  bright 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 


From  twisted  silvers  look VI  to  shame 
The  hollow-vaulted  dark,  and  stream'd 
Upon  the  mooned  domes  aloof 
In  inmost  Bagdat,  till  there  seem'd 
Hundreds  of  crescents  on  the  roof 

Of  night  new-risen,  that  marvelous  time, 
To  celebrate  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Then  stole  I  up,  and  trancedly 

Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone, 

Serene,  with  argent-lidded  eyes 

Amorous,  and  lashes  like  to  rays 

Of  darkness,  and  a  brow  of  pearl 

Tressed  with  redolent  ebony , 

In  many  a  dark  delicious  curl, 

Flowing  beneath  her  rose-hued  zone; 
The  sweetest  lady  of  the  time, 
Well  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Six  columns,  three  on  either  side, 
Pure  silver,  underpropt  a  rich 
Throne  of  the  massive  ore,  from  which 
Down-drooped,  in  many  a  floating  fold, 
Engarlanded  and  diaper'd 
With  inwrought  flowers,  a  cloth  of  gokL 
Thereon,  his  deep  eye  laughter-stirred 
With  merriment  of  kingly  pride, 
Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time, 
I  saw  him — in  his  golden  prime, 
The  Good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


^so 


■m? 


"  Then  stole  I  up,  and  trancedly 
Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone.' 


ODE  TO  MEMORY. 


23 


ODE     TO    MEM  OR  T. 


ADDRESSED    TO 


HOU  who  stealest  fire 

From  the  fountains  of  the  past, 

To  glorify  the  present;  oh,  haste 

Visit  my  low  desire! 

Strengthen  me,  enlighten  me! 

I  faint  in  this  obscurity, 

Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


ii. 


Come  not  as  thou  earnest  of  late, 
Flinging  the  gloom  of  yesternight 
On  the  white  day;  but  robed  in  softened  light 

Of  orient  state. 
Whilome  thou  earnest  with  the  mornii-g  mist, 

Even  as  a  maid,  whose  stately  brow 
The  dew-impeaiTd  winds  of  dawn  have  kiss'd, 
When,  she,  as  thou, 
Stays  on  her  floating  locks  the  lovely  freight 
Of  overflowing  blooms  and  earliest  shoots 
Of  orient  green,  giving  safe  pledge  of  fruits, 
Which  in  wintertide  shall  star 
The  black  earth  with  brilliance  rare. 


m. 

Whilome  thou  earnest  with  the  morning  mist, 

And  with  the  evening  cloud, 
Showering  thy  gleaned  wealth  into  my  open  breast 
(Those  peerless  flowers  which  in  the  rudest  wind 

Never  grow  sere, 
When  rooted  in  the  garden  of  the  mind, 
Because  they  are  the  earliest  of  the  year). 

Nor  was  the  night  thy  shroud, 
In  sweet  dreams  softer  than  unbroken  rest 
Thou  leddest  by  the  hand  thine  infant  Hope. 


24 


ODE  TO  MEMORT. 


The  eddying  of  her  garments  caught  from  thee 
The  light  of  thy  great  presence;  and  the  cope 

Of  the  half-attain'd  futurity, 

Though  deep  not  fathomless, 
Was  cloven  with  the  million  stars  which  tremble 
O'er  the  deep  mind  of  dauntless  infancy. 
Small  thought  was  there  of  life's  distress ; 
For  sure  she  deem'd  no  mist  of  earth  could  dull 
Those  spirit-thrilling  eyes  so  keen  and  beautiful; 
Sure  she  was  nigher  to  heaven's  spheres, 
Listening  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimitable  years. 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


IV. 

Come  forth  I  charge  thee,  arise, 

Thou  of  the  many  tongues,  the  myriad  eyes: 

Thou  comest  not  with  shows  of  flaunting  vines 
Unto  mine  inner  eye, 
Divinest  Memory! 

Thou  wert  not  nursed  by  the  waterfall 
Which  ever  sounds  and  shines 

A  pillar  of  white  light  upon  the  wall 
Of  purple  cliffs,  aloof  descried: 
Come  from  the  woods  that  belt  the  gray  hill-side, 
The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four 
That  stand  beside  my  father's  door, 


"  Pour  round  mine  ears  the  livelong  bleat 

Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wattled  folds.** 


ODE  TO  MEMORY. 


And  chiefly  from  the  brook  that  loves 
To  purl  o'er  matted  cress  and  ribbed  sand, 
Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves, 
Drawing  into  his  narrow  earthen  urn, 

In  every  elbow  and  turn, 
The  filter'd  tribute  of  the  rough  woodland. 

O!   hither  lead  thy  i 
Pour  round  mine  ears  the  livelong  bleat 
Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wattled  folds. 

Upon  the  ridged  wolds, 
When  the  first  matin-song  hath  waken'd  loud 
Over  the  dark  dewy  earth  forlorn, 
What  time  the  amber  morn 
Forth  gushes  from  beneath  a  low-hung  cloud. 


Large  dowries  doth  the  raptured  eye 
To  the  young  spirit  present 
When  first  she  is  wed ; 

And  like  a  bride  of  old 
In  triumph  led, 

With  music  and  sweet  showers 
Of  festal  flowers, 
Unto  the  dwelling  she  must  sway. 
Well  hast  thou  done,  great  artist  Memory, 
In  netting  round  thy  first  experiment 

With  royal  frame-work  of  wrought  gold; 
Needs  must  thou  dearly  love  thy  first  essay, 
And  foremost  in  thy  various  gallery 
Place  it,  where  sweetest  sunlight  falls 
Upon  the  storied  walls; 
For  the  discovery 
And  newness  of  thine  art  so  pleased  thee, 
That  all  which  thou  hast    drawn  of  fairest 

Or  boldest  since,  hut  lightly  weighs 
With  thee  unto  the  love  thou  nearest 
The  first-born  of  thy  genius.     Artist-like., 
Ever  retiring  thou  dost  gaze 
On  the  prime  labor  of  thine  early  days: 
No  matter  what  the  sketch   might  be; 
Whether  the  high  field  on  the    bushless  Pike, 
Or  even  a  sand-built  ridge 
Of  heaped  hills  that  mound  the  sea, 
Overblown  with  murmurs  harsh, 


26 


ODE  TO  MEMORT. 


Or  even  a  lowly  cottage  whence  we  see 

Stretch'd  wide  and  wild  the  waste  enormous  marsh, 

Where  from  the  frequent  bridge, 

Like  emblems  of  infinity, 

The  trenched  waters  run  from  sky  to  sky; 

Or  a  garden  bower'd  close 

With  plaited  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose, 

Long  alleys  falling  down  to  twilight  grots. 

Or  opening  upon  level  plots 

Of  crowned  lilies,  standing  near 

Purple-spiked  lavender: 

Whither  in  after  life  retired 

From  brawling  storms, 

From  weary  wind, 

With  youthful  fancy  reinspired, 

We  may  hold  converse  with  all  forms 
Of  the  man)'-sided  mind, 
And  those  whom  passion  hath  not  blinded* 
Subtle-thoughted,  myriad-minded. 

My  friend,  with  you  to  live  alone, 
Were  how  much  better  than  to  own 
A  crown,  a  sceptre,  and  a  throne! 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


so.vg. 


27 


SO JVG. 


SPIRIT  haunts  the  year's  last  hours 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers: 

To  himself  he  talks; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly, 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and  sigh 

In  the  walks; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy  stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers: 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly, 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 

Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-Kly. 


ii. 

The  air  is  damp,  and  hush'd,  and  close, 

As  a  sick  man's  room  when  he  taketh  repose 

An  hour  before  death; 
My  very  heart  faints  and  my  whole  soul  grieves 
At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting  leaves, 
And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  beneath, 
And  the  year's  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly, 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


28 


THE  POET. 


THE  POET. 


HE  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born, 

With  golden  stars  above; 
Dower'd  with  the  hate  of  hate,    the   scorn   of 
scorn, 

The  love  of  love. 


He  saw  thro'  life  and  death,  thro'  good  and  ill, 

He  saw  thro'  his  own  soul. 
The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will, 

An  open  scroll, 

Before  him  lay :  with  echoing  feet  he  threaded 

The  secretest  walks  of  fame: 
The  viewless  arrows  of  his  thoughts  were  headed 

And  wing'd  with  flame, 


Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  silver  tongue, 

And  of  so  fierce  a  flight, 
From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung, 

Filling  with  light 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  whicn  bore 

Them  earthward  till  they  lit; 
Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  field  flower 

The  fruitful  wit 

Cleaving,  took  root,  and  springing  forth  anew, 

Where'er  they  fell,  behold, 
Like  to  the  mother  plant  in  semblance,  grew 

A  flower  all  gold, 


And  bravely  furnish'd  all  abroad  to  fling 

The  winged  shafts  of  truth, 
To  throng  with  stately  blooms  the  breathing  sprin< 

Of  Hope  and  Youth. 


THE  POET.  29 


So  many  minds  did  gird  their  orbs  with  beams, 

Tho'  one  did  fling  the  fire. 
Heaven  flow'd   upon  the  soul  in  many  dreams 

Of  high  desire. 

Thus  truth  was  multiplied  on  truth,  the  world 

Like  one  great  garden  show'd, 
And  thro'  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark  upcurl'd, 

Rare  sunrise  flow'd. 

And  Freedom  rear'd  in  that  august  sunrise 

Her  beautiful  bold  brow, 
When  rites  and  forms  before  his  burning  eyes 

Melted  like  snow. 

There  was  no  blood  upon  her  maiden  robes 

Sunn'd  by  those  orient  skies; 
But  round  about  the  circles  of  the  globes 

Of  her  keen  eyes 

And  in  her  raiment's  hem  was  traced  in  flame 

Wisdom,  a  name  to  shake 
All  evil  dreams  of  power — a  sacred  name, 

And  when  she  spake, 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they  ran, 
And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thunder 

Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of  man, 
Making  earth  wonder, 

So  was  their  meaning  to  her  words.     No  sword 
Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whirl'd, 

But  one  poor  poet's  scroll,  and  with  his  word 
She  shook  the  world. 


THE  POETS  MIND. 


THE  POET'S  MIND. 


EX   not  thou  the  poet's  mind 
With  thy  shallow  wit: 
Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind ; 
For  thou  canst  not  fathom  it. 
Clear  and  bright  it  should  be  ever, 
Flowing  like  a  crystal  river; 
Bright  as  light,  and  clear  as  wind. 


Dark  brow'd  sophist,  come  not  anear; 
All  the  place  is  holy  ground; 
Hollow  smile  and  frozen  sneer 

Come  not  here. 
Holy  water  will  I  pour 
Into  every  spicy  flower 
)f'  the  laurel-shrubs  that  hedge  it  around. 
The  flowers  would  faint  at  your  cruel  cheer. 
In  your  eye  there  is  death, 
There  is  frost  in  your  breath 
Which  would  blight  the  plants. 
Where  you  stand  you  cannot  hear 
From  the  groves  within 
The  wild-bird's  din. 
In  the  heart  of  the  garden  the  merry  bird  chants, 
It  would  fall  to  the  ground  if  you  came  in. 
In  the  middle  leaps  a  fountain 
Like  sheet  lightning, 
Ever  brightening 
With  a  low  melodious  thunder. 
All  day  and  all  night  it  is  ever  drawn 
From  the  brain  of  the  purple  mountain 
Which  stands  in  the  distance  yonder: 
It  springs  on  a  level  of  bowery  lawn, 
And  the  mountain  draws  it  from  Heaven  above, 
And  it  sings  a  song  of  undying  love; 
And  yet,  tho'  its  voice  be  so  clear  and  full, 
You  never  would  hear  it;  your  ears  are  so  dull; 
So  keep  where  you  are:  you  are  foul  with  sin; 
It  would  shrink  to  the  earth  if  you  came  in. 


c 

1  h 

73  v 

o  w 

a  .E 

*3  <* 


SEA  FAIRIES. 


31 


LOW  saiPd  the  weary  mariners  and  saw, 
Betwixt  the  green  brink  and  the  running  foam, 
Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms  prest 
To  lirtle  harps  of  gold;  and  while  they  mused, 
Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear, 
Shrill  music  reach'd  them  on  the  middle  sea. 
Whither  away,   whither  away,  whither  away?  fly  on  more. 
Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field,  and  the  happy 

blossoming  shore? 
Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  fountain  calls: 
Down  shower  the  gambolling  waterfalls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea: 
Out  of  the  live-green  heart  of  the  dells 
They  freshen  the  silvery-crimson  shells, 
And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover-hill  swells 

High  over  the  full-toned  sea: 
O  hither,  come  hither  and  furl  your  sails, 
Come  hither  to  me  and  to  me: 
Hither,  come  hither  and  frolic  and  play; 
Here  it  is  only  the  mew  that  wails; 
We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day: 
Mariner,  mariner,  furl  your  sails, 
For  here  are  the  blissful  downs  and  dales, 
And  merrily,  merrily  carol  the  gales, 
And  the  spangle  dances  in  bight  and  bay, 
And  the  rainbow  forms  and  flies  on  the  land 
Over  the  islands  free; 
And  the  rainbow  lives  in  the  curve  of  the  sand : 


TO  J.  M.  K. 


Hither,  come  hither  and  see; 
And  the  rainbow  hangs  on  the  poising  wave, 
And  sweet  is  the  color  of  cove  and  cave. 
And  sweet  shall  your  welcome  be: 
O  hither,  come  hither,  and  be  our  lords 
For  merry  brides  are  we: 

We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speak  sweet  words: 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  jubilee : 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
When  the  sharp  clear  twang  of  the  golden  chords 
Runs  up  the  ridged  sea. 
Who  can  light  on  as  happy  a  shore 
All  the  world  o'er,  all  the  world  o'er? 

Whither  away?    listen   and   stay:  mariner,  mariner,  fly  no 
more. 


TO 

y.  m. 

K. 

Y  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee — thou  wilt  be 
A  latter  Luther,  and  a  soldier-priest 
To  scare  church-harpies  from  the  master's  feast; 
Our  dusted  velvets  have  much  need  of  thee: 
Thou  art  no  Sabbath  drawler  of  old  saws, 
Distill'd  from  some  worm-canker'd  homily; 
But  spurr'd  at  heart  with  fieriest  energy 
To  embattail  and  to  wall  about  thy  cause 
With  iron-worded  proof,  hating  to  hark 
The  humming  of  the  drowsy  pulpit-drone 
Half  God's  good  Sabbath,  while  the  worn-out  clerk 
Brow-beats  his  desk  below.     Thou  from  a  throne 
Mounted  in  heaven  wilt  shoot  into  the  dark 
Arrows  of  lightnings.     I  will  stand  and  mark. 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 


33 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 


foratlHFE  and  Thought  have  gone  away 


w 


i 


Side  by  side, 
Leaving  door  and  windows  wide: 
Careless  tenants  they! 

All  within  is  dark  as  night: 
In  the  windows  is  no  light; 
And  no  murmur  at  the  door, 
So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 


Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close, 
Or  thro'  the  windows  we  shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 

Of  the  dark  deserted  house. 


34 


A  DIRGE. 


Come  away:  no  more  of  mirth 
Is  here  or  merry-making  sound. 

The  house  was  bu ikied  of  the  earth, 
And  shall  fall  again  to  ground. 

Come  away:  for  Life  and  Thought 

Here  no  longer  dwell; 
But  in  a  city  glorious — 
A  great  and  distant  city — have  bought 

A  mansion  incorruptible. 
Would  they  could  have  staid  with  us! 


& 


OW  is  done  thy  long  day's  work; 
Fold  thy  palms  across  thv  breast, 
JESbTB      Fold  thine  arms,  turn  to  thy  rest. 
Let  them  rave. 
Shadows  of  the  silver  birk 
Sweep  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 


Thee  nor  carketh  care  nor  slander; 
Nothing  but  the  small  cold  worm 
Fretteth  thine  enshrouded  form. 

Let  them  rave. 
Light  and  shadow  ever  wander 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


A  DIRGE.  35 


Thou  wilt  not  turn  upon  thy  bed, 
Chanteth  not  the  brooding  bee 
Sweeter  tones  than  calumny? 

Let  them  rave. 
Thou  wilt  never  raise  thine  head 
From  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  raw. 

Crocodiles  wept  tears  for  thee; 

The  woodbine  and  eglatere 

Drip  sweeter  dews  than  traitor's  tear. 

Lei  them  rave. 

Rain  makes  music  in  the  tree 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  tkem  rave. 

Round  thee  blow,  self-pleached  deep, 
Bramble-roses,  taint  and  pale, 
And  long  purples  of  the  dale. 

Let  them  rave. 
These  in  every  shower  creep 
Thro'  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

The  gold-eyed  kingcups  fine; 
The  frail  bluebell  peereth  over 
Rare  broidry  of  the  purple  clover. 

Let  them  rave. 
Kings  have  no  such  couch  as  thine, 
As  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

Wild  words  wander  here  and   there; 
God's  great  gift  of  speech  abus'd 
Makes  thy  memory  confusVl : 

But  let  them  rave. 
The  balm-cricket  carols  clear 
In  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


A  CHARACTER. 


A   CHARACTER. 


ITH  a  half-glance  upon  the  sky, 
At  night  he  said,  "  The  wanderings 
Of  this  most  intricate  Universe 
Teach  me  the  nothingness  of  things," 
Yet  could  not  all  creation  pierce 
Beyond  the  bottom  of  his  eye. 

He  spake  of  beauty :  that  the  dull 
Saw  no  divinity  in  grass, 
Life  in  dead  stones,  or  spirit  in  air; 
•Then  looking  as  'twere  in  a  glass, 
He  smoothed  his  chin  and  sleek'd  his  hair, 
And  said  the  earth  was  beautiful. 
He  spake  of  virtue:  not  the  gods 
More  purely,  when  they  wish  to  charm 
Pallas  and  Juno  sitting  by: 
And  with  a  sweeping  of  the  arm, 
And  a  lack-lustre  dead-blue  eye, 
Devolv'd  his  rounded  periods. 

Most  delicately  hour  by  hour 
He  canvass'd  human  mysteries, 
And  trod  on  silk,  as  if  the  winds 
Blew  his  own  praises  in  his  eyes, 
And  stood  aloof  from  other  minds 
In  impotence  of  fancied  power. 


With  lips  depress'd  as  he  were  meek, 
Himself  unto  himself  he  sold; 
Upon  himself  himself  did  feed: 
Quiet,  dispassionate,  and  cold, 
And  other  than  his  form  of  creed, 
With  chisell'd  features  clear  and  sleek. 


"  Wherefore  those  dim  looks  of  thine, 
Shadowy  dreaming  Adeline  ?" 


SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS. 


39 


While  his  locks  a-dropping  twin'd 

Round  thy  neck  in  subtle  ring 
Make  a  carcanet  of  rays, 

And  ye  talk  together  still, 
In  the  language  wherewith  Spring 
Letters  cowslips  on  the  hill? 
Hence  that  look  and  smile  of  thine, 
Spiritual  Adeline. 


SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS 

OF    A    SECOND-RATE    SENSITIVE    MIND    NOT    IN    UNITY    WITH    ITSELF 


GOD  !  my  God  !  have  mercy  now. 
I  faint,  I  fall.     Men  say  that  thou 
Didst  die  for  me,  for  such  as  me. 
Patient  of  ill,  and  death,  and  scorn, 
And  that  my  sin  was  as  a  thorn 
Among  the  thorns  that  girt  thy  brow, 
Wounding  thy  soul. — That  even  now, 
In  this  extremest  misery 
Of  ignorance,  I  should  require 

A  sign!  and  if  a  bolt  of  fire 

Would  rive  the  slumberous  summer  noon 

While  I  do  pray  to  thee  alone, 

Think  my  belief  would  stronger  grow! 

Is  not  my  human  pride  brought  low? 

The  boastings  of  my  spirit  still  ? 

The  joy  I  had  in  my  free  will 

All  cold,  and  dead,  and  corpse-like  grown? 

And  what  is  left  to  me,  but  thou, 

And  faith  in  thee?     Men  pass  me  by; 

Christians  with  happy  countenances — 

And  children  all  seem  full  of  thee! 

And  women  smile  with  saintlike  glances 

Like  thine  own  mother's  when  she  bow'd 

Above  thee,  on  that  happy  morn 

When  angels  spake  to  men  aloud, 

And  thou  and  peace  to  earth  were  born. 


40  SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS. 


Goodwill  to  me  as  well  as  all — 

— I  one  of  them:  my  brothers  they: 

Brothers  in  Christ — a  world  of  peace 

A  confidence,  day  after  day; 
And  trust  and  hope  till  things  should  cease, 

And  then  one  Heaven  receive  us  all. 


How  sweet  to  have  a  common  faith! 
To  hold  a  common  scorn  of  death! 
And  at  a  burial  to  hear 

The  creaking  cords  which  wound  and  eat 
Into  my  human  heart,  whene'er 
Earth  goes  to  earth,  with  grief,  not  fear, 

With  hopeful  grief,  were  passing  sweet! 
A  grief  not  uninform'd,  and  dull, 
Hearted  with  hope,  of  hope  as  full 
As  is  the  blood  with  life,  or  night 
And  a  dark  cloud  with  rich  moonlight. 
To  stand  beside  a  grave,  and  see 
The  red  small  atoms  wherewith  we 
Are  built,  and  smile  in  calm,  and  say — 
"  These  little  motes  and  grains  shall  be 
Clothed  on  with  immortality 
More  glorious  than  the  noon  of  day. 

All  that  is  pass'd  into  the  flowers, 
And  into  beasts  and  other  men, 
And  all  the  Norland  whirlwind  shower* 
From  open  vaults,  and  all  the  sea 
O'erwashes  with  sharp  salts,  again 
Shall  fleet  together  all,  and  be 
Indu'd  with  immortality." 

Thrice  happy  state  again  to  be 
The  trustful  infant  on  the  knee! 
Who  lets  his  waxen  fingers  play 
About  his  mother's  neck,  and  knows 
Nothing  beyond  his  mother's  eyes. 
They  comfort  him  by  night  and  day, 
They  light  his  little  life  alway; 
He  hath  no  thought  of  coming  woes; 
He  hath  no  care  of  life  or  death, 
Scarce  outward  signs  of  joy  arises 
Because  the  Spirit  of  happiness 
And  perfect  rest  so  inward  isj 


ADELINE. 


3? 


ADELINE. 


% 


YSTERY  of  mysteries, 

Faintly  smiling  Adeline, 
Kfeo  Scarce  of  earth  nor  all  divine, 
Nor  unhappy,  nor  at  rest, 
But  beyond  expression  fair 
With  thy  floating  flaxen  hair; 
Thy  rose-lips  and  full  blue  eyes 
Take  the  heart  from  out  my  breast. 
Wherefore  those  dim  looks  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline? 

Whence  that  aery  bloom  of  thine, 

Like  a  lily  which  the  sun 
Looks  thro'  in  his  sad  decline, 
And  a  rose-bush  leans  upon. 
Thou  that  faintly  smilest  still, 
As  a  Naiad  in  a  well, 
Looking  at  the  set  of  day. 
Or  a  phantom  two  hours  old 

Of  a  maiden  past  away, 
Ere  the  placid  lips  be  cold? 
Wherefore  those  faint  smiles  of  thine, 
Spiritual  Adeline? 


What  hope  or  fear  or  joy  is  thine? 
Who  talketh  with  thee,  Adeline? 
For  sure  thou  art  not  all  alone. 

Do  beating  hearts  of  salient  springs 
Keep  measure  with  thine  own? 

Hast  thou  heard  the  butterflies 
What  they  say  betwixt  their  wings? 
Or  in  stillest  evenings 
With  what  voice  the  violet  woos 
To  his  heart  the  silver  dews? 
Or  when  little  airs  arise, 
How  the  merry  bluebell  rings 

To  the  mosses  underneath? 


ADELINE. 


Hast  thou  look'd  upon  the  breath 
Of  the  lilies  at  sunrise? 
Wherefore  that  faint  smile  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  ? 


Some  honey-converse  feeds  thy  mind, 
Some  spirit  of  a  crimson  rose 
In  love  with  thee  forgets  to  close 
His  curtains,  wasting  odorous  sighs 
All  night  long  on  darkness  blind. 
What  aileth  thee?  whom  waitest  thou 
With  thy  soften'd,  shadow'd  brow, 

And  those  dew-lit  eyes  of  thine, 
Thou  faint  smiler,  Adeline? 


Lovest  thou  the  doleful  wind 

When  thou  gazest  at  the  skies? 
Doth  the  low-tongued  Orient 

Wander  from  the  side  of  the  morn, 
Dripping  with  Sabaean  spice 
On  thy  pillow,  lowly  bent 

With  melodious  airs  lovelorn, 
Breathing  light  against  thy  face 


SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS. 


43 


"  Yet,"  said  I,  in  my  morn  of  youth, 
The  unsun'd  freshness  of  my  strength 
When  I  went  forth  in  quest  of  truth, 
"  It  is  man's  privilege  to  doubt, 
If  so  be  that  from  doubt  at  length, 
Truth  may  stand  forth  unmov'd  of  change, 
An  image  with  profulgent  brows, 
And  perfect  limbs,  as  from  the  storm 
Of  running  fires  and  fluid  range 
Of  lawless  airs  at  last  stood  out 
This  excellence  and  solid  form 
Of  constant  beauty.     For  the  ox 
Feeds  in  the  herb,  and  sleeps,  or  fills 
The  horned  valleys  all  about, 
And  hollows  of  the  fringed  hills 
In  summer  heats,  with  placid  lows 
Unfearing,  till  his  own  blood  flows 
About  his  hoof.     And  in  the  flocks 


The  lamb  rejoiceth  in  the  year, 

And  raceth  freely  with  his  fere, 

And  answers  to  his  mother's  calls 

From  the  flower'd  furrow.     In  a  time, 

Of  which  he  wots  not,  run  short  pains 

Thro'  his  warm  heart,  and  then,  from  whence 

He  knows  not,  on  his  light  there  falls 

A  shadow;  and  his  native  slope 

Where  he  was  wont  to  leap  and  climb, 

Floats  from  his  sick  and  filmed  eyes, 

And  something  in  the  darkness  draws 

His  forehead  earthward,  and  he  dies. 

Shall  man  live  thus,  in  joy  and  hope 

As  a  young  lamb,  who  cannot  dream, 

Living,  but  that  he  shall  live  on? 


44 


HERO  TO  LEANDER. 


Shall  we  not  look  into  the  laws 
Of  life  and  death,  and  things  that  seem 
And  things  that  be,  and  analyze 
Our  double  nature,  and  compare 
All  creeds  till  we  have  found  the  one, 
If  one  there  be?  "     Ay  me!  I  fear 
All  may  not  doubt,  but  everywhere 
Some  must  clasp  idols.     Yet,  my  God, 
Whom  call  I  Idol?     Let  thy  dove 
►Shadow  me  over,  and  my  sins 
Be  unremember'd,  and  thy  love 
Enlighten  me.     O  teach  me  yet 
Somewhat  before  the  heavy  clod 
Weighs  on  me,  and  the  busy  fret 
Of  that  sharp-headed  worm  begins 
In  the  gross  blackness  underneath. 

O  weary  life!     O  weary  death! 
O  spirit  and  heart  made  desolate! 
O  damned  vacillating  state! 


HERO  TO  LEANDER. 


\   GO  not  yet,  my  love! 

The  night  is  dark  and  vast; 
The  white  moon  is  hid  in  her  heaven  above, 

And  the  waves  climb  high  and  fast. 
O,  kiss  me,  kiss  me,  once  again, 

Lest  thy  kiss  should  be  the  last! 
O  kiss  me  ere  we  part; 
Grow  closer  to  my  heart! 
My  heart  is  warmer  surely  than  the  bosom  of  the  main 
O  joy!  O  bliss  of  blisses! 

My  heart  of  hearts  art  thou. 
Come  bathe  me  with  thy  kisses, 

My  eyelids  and  my  brow. 
Hark  how  the  wild  rain  hisses, 
And  the  loud  sea  roars  below. 

Thy  heart  beats  through  thy  rosy  limbs, 
So  gladly  doth  it  stir; 
Thine  eye  in  drops  of  gladness  swims. 


SUPPOSED  coxf/:ss/oxs.  41 

And  loveth  so  his  innocent  heart, 
Her  templfl  and  lier  place  of  birth, 
Where  she  would  ever  wish  to  dwell, 
Life  of  the  fountain  there,  beneath 
Its  salient  springs,  and   far  apart* 
Hating  to  wander  out  on  earth, 
Or  breathe  into  the  hollow  air, 
Whose  chilliness  would  make  visible 
Her  subtile,  warm,  and  golden  breath, 
Which  mixing   with  the  infant's  blood. 
Full  (ills  him  with  beatitude. 

O  sure  it  is  a  special  care 

Of  God,  to  fortify  from  doubt, 
To  arm  in  proof,  and  guard  about 
With  triple  mailed  trust,  and  clear 
Delight,  the  infant's  dawning  year. 

Would  that  my  gloomed  fancy  were 

As  thine,  my  mother,  when  with  brows 

Propp'd  on  thy  knees, my  hands  upheld 

In  thine,  I  listened  to  thy  vows, 

For  me  outpour'd  in  holiest  prayer — 

For  me  unworthy! — and  beheld 

The  mild  deep  eyes  uprais'd,  that  knew 

The  beauty  and  repose  of  faith, 

And  the  clear  spirit  shining  through. 

O  wherefore  do  we  grow  awry 

From  roots  which  strike  so  deep?  why  datJ 

Paths  in  the  desert?     Could  not  I 

Bow  myself  down,  where  thou  hast  knelt, 

To  th'  earth — until  the  ice  would  melt 

Here,  and  I  feel  as  thou  hast  felt? 

What  devil  had  the  heart  to  scathe 

Flowers  thou  hadst  rear'd — to  brush  the  dew  , 

From  thine  own  lily,  when  thy  grave 

\\        deep,  my  mother,  in  the  clay? 

Myself?     Is  it  thus?     Myself?    Had  I 

So  little  lore  for  thee?     But  why 

PrevaiPd  not  thy  pure  prayers?     Why  pray 

To  one  who  heeds  not,  who  can  save 

But  will  not?      Great  in  faith,  and  strong 

Against  the  grief  of  circumstance 

Wert  thou,  and  yet  unheard?     What  if 

Thou  pleadest  still,  and  scest  me  drive 

Thro'  utter  dark  a  full-sail'd   skiff", 

Unpiloted  i'  the  echoing  dance 


42  SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS. 

Of  reboant  whirlwinds,  stooping  low 

Unto  the  death,  not  sunk!  I  know 

At  matins  and  at  evensong, 

That  thou,  ii  thou  wert  yet  alive, 

In  deep  and  daily  prayers  would'st  strive 

To  reconcile  me  with  thy  God. 

Albeit,  my  hope  is  gray  and  cold 

At  heart,  thou  wouldest  murmur  still — 

"  Bring  this  lamb  back  into  thy  fold, 

My  Lord,  if  so  it  be  thy  will." 

Would'st  tell  me  I  must  brook  the  rod, 

And  chastisement  of  human  pride: 

That  pride,  the  sin  of  devils,  stood 

Betwixt  me  and  the  light  of  God  I 

That  hitherto  I  had  defied, 

And  had  rejected  God — that  Grace 

Would  drop  from  his  o'erbrimming'love, 

As  manna  on  my  wilderness, 

If  I  would  pray — that  God  would  move 

And  strike  the  hard,  hard  rack,  and  thence, 

Sweet  in  their  utmost  bitterness, 

Would  issue  tears  of  penitence 

Which  would  keep  green  hope's  life.     Alas! 

I  think  that  pride  hath  now  no  place 

Or  sojourn  in  me.     I  am  void, 

Dark,  formless,  utterly  destroy'd. 

Why  not  believe  then?     Why  not  yet 
Anchor  thy  frailty  there,  where  man 
Hath  moor'd  and  rested?     Ask  the  sea 
At  midnight,  when  the  crisp  slope  waves 
After  a  tempest,  rib  and  fret 
The  broad -imbased  beach,  why  he 
Slumbers  not  like  a  mountain  tarn? 
Wherefore  his  ridges  are  not  curls 
And  ripples  of  an  inland  meer? 
Wherefore  he  moaneth  thus,  nor  can 
Draw  down  into  his  vexed  pools 
All  that  blue  heaven  which  hues  and  paves 
The  other?     I  am  too  forlorn, 
Too  shaken:  my  own  weakness  fools 
My  judgment,  and  my  spirit  whirls, 
Mov'd  from  beneath  with  doubt  and  fear. 


V 


THE  MT STIC. 


47 


THE  MYSTIC. 


NGELS    have    talk'd   with   him,   and    show'd    him 
thrones: 
Ye  knew  him  not:  he  was  not  one  of  ye, 
Ye  scorn'd  him  with  an  undiscerning  scorn: 
Ye  could  not  read  the  marvel  in  his  eye, 
The  still  serene  abstraction :  he  hath  felt 
The  vanities  of  after  and  before; 
Albeit,  his  spirit  and  his  secret  heart 
The  stern  experiences  of  converse  lives, 
The  linked  woes  of  many  a  fiery  change 

Had  purified,  and  chasten'd,  and  made  free, 
Always  there  stood  before  him,  night  and  day, 

Of  wayward  vary-color'd  circumstance 
The  imperishable  presences  serene, 
Colossal,  without  form,  or  sense,  or  sound, 

Dim  shadows  but  unwaning  presences 

Four-fac'd  to  four  coiners  of  the  sky; 

And  yet  again,  three  shadows,  fronting  one, 

One  forward,  one  respectant,  three  but  one; 

And  yet  again,  again  and  evermore, 

For  the  two  first  were  not,  but  only  seem'd, 

One  shadow  in  the  midst  of  a  great  light, 

One  reflex  from  eternity  on  time, 

One  mighty  countenance  of  perfect  calm, 

Awful  with  most  invariable  eyes. 

For  him  the  silent  congregated  hours, 

Daughters  of  time,  divinely  tall,  beneath 

Severe  and  youthful  brows,  with  shining  eyes 

Smiling  a  godlike  smile  (the  innocent  light 

Of  earliest  youth  piere'd  thro'  and  thro1  with  all 

Keen  knowledges  of  low-embowed  eld) 

Upheld,  and  ever  hold  aloft  the  cloud 

Which  droops  low-hung  on  either  gate  of  life, 

Both  birth  and  death:   he  in  the  center  fixt, 

Saw  far  on  each  side  through  the  grated  gates 

Most  pale  and  clear  and  lovely  distances. 

He  often  lying  broad  awake,  and  yet 

Remaining  from  the  body,  and  apart 


48 


ELEGIACS. 


In  intellect  and  power  and  will,  hath  heard     ' 
Time  flowing-  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
And  all  things  creeping  to  a  day  of  doom. 
How  could  ye  know  him  ?      Ye  were  yet  within 
The  narrower  circle:  he  had  well-nigh  reach'd 
The  last,  which  with  a  region  of  white  flame, 
Pure  without  heat,  into  a  larger  air 
Upburning,  and  an  ether  of  black  blue, 
Investeth  and  ingirds  all  other  lives. 


ELEGIACS. 


OW-FLOWING  breezes  are   roaming    the    broad   valley   dimm'd    in 
the  glooming: 
Thro'  the  black-stemm'd  pines  only  the  far  river  shines: 
Creeping  thro'  blossomy  rushes  and  bowers  of  rose-blowing  bushes 
Down  by  the  poplar  tall  rivulets  babble  and  fall. 

Barketh  the  shepherd-dog  cheerily;  the  grasshopper  carrolleth  clearly; 
Deeply  the  turtle  cooes;  shrilly  the  owlet  halloos; 

Winds  creep:  dews  fall  chilly:  in  her  first  sleep  earth  breathes  stilly: 
Over  the  pools  in  the  burn  water-gnat  murmur  aud  mourn. 
Sadly  the  far  kine  loweth:  the  glimmering  water  outflovveth: 
Twin  peaks  shadow'd  with  pine  slope  to  the  dark  hyaline. 
Low-thron'd  Hesper  is  stay'd  between  the  two  peaks;  but  the  Naiad. 
Throbbing  in  wild  unrest  holds  him  beneath  in  her  breast. 
The  ancient  poetess  singeth  that  Hesperus  all  things  bringeth, 
Smoothing  the  wearied  mind:  bring  me  my  love,  Rosalind. 
Thou  comest  morning  and  even;  she  cometh  not  morning  or  even. 
False-eyed  Hesper,  unkind,  where  is  my  sweet  Rosalind? 


HERO  TO  LEANDER. 


45 


I  have  bath'd  thee  with  the  pleasant  myrrh; 
Thy  locks  are  chipping  balm: 
Thou  shalt  not  wander  hence  to-night, 

I'll  stay  thee  with  my  kisses. 
To-ni<fht  the  roaring  brine 

Will  rend  thy  golden  tre- 
The  ocean  with   the  morrow  light 
Will  be  both  blue  and  calm: 
And  the  billow  will  embrace  thee  with  a  kiss  as  soft  as  mint 


a 


^WNI 


.^o  Western  odors  wander 

On  the  black  and  moaning  sea, 
And  when  thou  art  dead,  Leander, 

My  soul  must  follow  thee! 
O  go  not  yet,  my  love! 

Thy  voice  is  sweet  and  low; 
The  deep  salt  wave  breaks  in  above 

Th<  se  marble  steps  below. 
The  turret-stairs  are  wet 

That  lead  into  the  sea. 
Leander!  go  not  yet, 
The  pleasant  stars  have  set: 
O,  go  not,  go  not  yet, 

Or  I  will  follow  thee! 


46 


THE  BURIAL  OF  LOVE. 


THE  B URIAL  OF  LO  VE. 


j IS  eyes  in  eclipse, 

Pale-cold  his  lips, 
The  light  of  his  hopes  unfed, 
Mute  his  tongue, 
His  bow  unstrung 
With  the  tears  he  hath  shed, 
Backward  drooping  his  graceful  head, 
Love  is  dead: 
His  last  arrow  is  sped : 
He  hath  not  another  dart; 
Go — carry  him  to  his  dark  deathbed; 
Bury  him  in  the  cold,  cold  heart- 
Love  is  dead. 


O  truest  love,  art  thou  forlorn, 

And  unreveng'd?  thy  pleasant  wiles 

Forgotten,  and  thine  innocent  joy? 

Shall  hollow-hearted  apatrry, 
The  cruellest  form  of  perfect  scorn, 
With  languor  of  most  hateful  smiles. 

Forever  write, 

In  the  wither'd  light 
Of  the  tearless  eye, 
An  epitaph  that  all  may  spy  ? 
No!  sooner  she  herself  shall  die. 

For  her  the  showers  shall  not  fall, 
Nor  the  round  sun  shine  that  shineth  to  all; 

Her  light  shall  into  darkness  change; 
For  her  the  green  grass  shall  not  spring, 
Nor  the  rivers  flow,  nor  the  sweet  birds  sing, 

Till  Love  have  his  full  revenge. 


THE  DTING  SWAN. 


4V 


THE  DYING  SWAN. 


HE  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare, 
Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  the  air, 
Which  had  built  up  everywhere 

An  under-roof  of  doleful  gray. 
With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 
Adown  it  floated  a  dying  swan, 
And  loudly  did  lament. 
It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 
Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on, 

And  took  the  reed-tops  as  it  went 


Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose, 

And  white  against  the  cold-white  sky, 

Shone  out  their  crowning  snows. 
One  willow  over  the  river  wept, 

And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did  sigh; 

Above  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow, 
Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will, 
And  far  thro'  the  marish  green  and  still 
The  tangled  water-courses  slept, 

Shot  over  with  purple,  and  green,  and  yellow. 


The  wild  swan's  death-hymn  took  the  soul 

Of  that  waste  place  with  joy 

Hidden  in  sorrow:  at  first  to  the  ear 

The  warble  was  low,  and  full  and  clear; 

And  floating  about  the  under-sky, 

Prevailing  in  weakness  the  coronach  stole 

Sometimes  afar,  and  sometimes  anear; 

But  anon  her  awful  jubilant  voice, 

With  a  music  strange  and  manifold, 

Flow'd  forth  on  a  carol  free  and  bold; 

As  when  a  mighty  people  rejoice 

With  shawms,  and  with  cymbals,  and  harps  of  gold, 

And  the  tumult  of  their  acclaim  is  roll'd 

Thro'  the  open  gates  of  the  city  afar, 

To  the  shepherd  who  watcheth  the  evening  star. 


50 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ORIANA. 


And  the  creeping  mosses  and  clambering  weeds, 
And  the  willow-branches  hoar  and  dank, 
And  the  wavy  swell  of  the  soughing  reeds, 
And  the  wave-worn  horns  of  the  echoing  bankr 
And  the  silvery  marish-flowers  that  throng 
The  desolate  creeks  and  pools  among, 
Were  flooded  over  with  eddying  song. 


[fjKni&o=*- 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ORIANA, 


Y  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe, 
Oriana. 
\~^      There  is  no  rest  for  me  below, 
\  Oriana. 

When  the  long  dun  wolds  are  ribb'd  with  snow, 
And  loud  the  Norland  whirlwinds  blow, 
Oriana, 
Alone  I  wander  to  and  fro, 
Oriana. 


Ere  the  light  on  dark  was  growing, 

Oriana. 
At  midnight  the  cock  was  crowing, 

Oriana : 
Winds  were  blowing,  waters  flowing, 
We  heard  the  steeds  to  battle  going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud  the  hollow  bugle  blowing, 

Oriana. 


In  the  yew-wood  black  as  night, 

Oriana, 
Ere  I  rode  into  the  fight, 

Oriana, 
While  blissful  tears  blinded  my  sight 
By  star-shine  and  by  moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I  to  thee  my  troth  did  plight, 

Oriana, 


With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 
Adown  it  floated  a  dying  swan." 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ORIANA.  51 


She  stood  upon  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana: 
She  watchM  my  crest  among  them  all, 

( )riana: 
She  saw  me  fight,  she  heard  me  call, 
When  forth  there  stept  a  foeman  tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween  me  and  the  castle  wall 

Oriana. 


The  bitter  arrow  went  aside, 

( )riana  : 
The  false,  false  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 
The  damned  arrow  glancM  aside, 
And  pierc'd  thy  heart,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana! 
Thy  heart,  my  life,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana! 

Oh!  narrow,  narrow  was  the  space, 

Oriana. 
Loud,  loud  rung  out  the  bugle's  brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh!  deathful  stabs  were  dealt  apace, 
The  battle  deepen'd  in  its  place, 

Oriana  ; 
But  I  was  down  upon  my  face, 

Oriana. 

They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana! 
How  could  I  rise  and  come  away, 

Oriana? 
How  could  I  look  upon  the  day  ? 
They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana — 
They  should  have  trod  me  into  clay, 

Oriana. 

O  breaking  heart  that  will  not  break, 

Oriana! 
O  pale,  pale  face  so  sweet  and  meek, 

Oriana! 


52  THE  BALLAD  OF  OR/ANA. 

Thou  smilest,  but  thou  dost  not  speak, 
And  then  the  tears  run  down  my  cheek, 

Oriana: 
What  wantest  thou  ?  whom  dost  thou  seek, 

Oriana? 

I  cry  aloud :  none  hear  my  cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou  comest  atween  me  and  the  skies, 

Oriana. 
I  feel  the  tears  of  blood  arise 
Up  from  my  heart  unto  my  eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within  thy  heart  my  arrow  lies, 

Oriana. 

O  cursed  hand !  O  cursed  blow ! 
Oriana! 

0  happy  thou  that  liest  low, 

Oriana! 
All  night  the  silence  seems  to  flow 
Beside  me  in  my  utter  woe, 

Oriana. 
A  weary,  weary  wa)'  I  go, 

Oriana. 

When  Norland  winds  pipe  down  the  sea, 
Oriana, 

1  walk,  I  dare  not  think  of  thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou  liest  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
I  dare  not  die  and  come  to  thee, 

Oriana. 
I  hear  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 

Oriana. 


THE  MERMAN. 


53 


THE  MERMAN. 


HO  would  be, 
A  merman  bold, 
Sitting  alone, 
Singingalone 
Under  the  sea, 
With  crown  of  gold, 
On  a  throne? 


I  would  be  a  merman  bold, 
I  would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  of  the  day; 
I  would  fill  the  sea-halls  with  a  voice  of  power; 
I>ut  at  night  I  would  roam  abroad  and  play 
With  the  mermaids  in  and  out  of  the  rocks, 
Dressing  their  hair  with  the  white  sen-flower; 
And  holding  them  back  by  their  flowing  locks 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kissYl  me 

Laughingly,  laughingly; 
And  then  we  would  wander  away,  away, 
To  the  pale-green  sea-grove^  straight  and  high, 
Chasing  each  other  merrily. 


There  would  be  neither  moon  nor  star; 

But  the  wave  would  make  music  above  us  afar — 

Low  thunder  and  light  in  the  magic  night — 

Neither  moon  nor  star. 
We  would  call  aloud  in  the  dreamy  dells, 
Call  to  each  other  and  whoop  and  cry 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily; 
They  would  pelt  me  with  starry  spangles  and  shells, 
Laughing  and  clapping  their  hands  between, 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily: 
But  I  would  throw  to  them  back  in  mine 
Turkis  and  agate  and  almondinet 
Then  leaping  out  upon  them  unseen 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 


54 


THE  MERMAID. 


And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd  me 

Laughingly,  laughingly. 
Oh!  what  a  happy  life  were  mine 
Under  the  hollow-hung  ocean  green! 
Soft  are  the  moss-beds  under  the  sea; 
We  would  live  merrily,  merrily. 


••-£3$^|c<§S=$<- 


THE  MERMAID. 


HO  would  be 

A  mermaid  fair 


Sin: 


alone, 


Combing  her  hair 
Under  the  sea, 
In  a  golden  curl 
With  a  comb  of  peail; 
On  a  throne? 

I  would  be  a  mermaid  fair; 
I  would  sing  to  myself  the  whole  of  the  day, 
With  a  comb  of  pearl  I  would  comb  my  hair; 
And  still  as  I  comb'd  I  would  sing  anil  say, 
"  Who  is  it  loves  me?  who  loves  not  me?  " 
I  would  comb  my  hair  till  my  ringlets  would  fall, 
Low  adown,  low  adown, 
From  under  my  starry  sea-bud  crown 

Low  adown  and  around, 
And  I  should  look  like  a  fountain  of  gold 
Springing  alone 
With  a  shrill  inner  sound, 

Over  the  throne 
In  the  midst  of  the  hall; 
Till  that  great  sea-snake  under  the  sea 
From  his  coil'd  sleeps  in  the  central  deeps 
Would  slowly  trail  himself  sevenfold 
Round  the  hall  where  I  sate,  and  look  in  at  the  gate 
With  his  large  calm  eyes  for  the  love  of  me. 
And  all  the  mermen  under  the  sea 
Would  feel  their  immortality 
Die  in  their  hearts  for  the  love  of  me. 


THE  MERMAID. 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 


55 


But  at  night  I  would  wander  away,  away, 

I  would  fling  on  each  side  my  low-flowing  locks, 
And  lightly  vault  from  the  throne  and  play 
With  the  mermen  in  and  out  of  the  rocks, 
We  would  run  to  and  fro,  and  hide  and  seek, 

On  the  broad  sea-wolds  in  the  crimson  shells, 
Whose  silvery  spikes  are  nighest  the  sea. 
But  if  any  came  near  I  would  call,  and  shriek, 
And  adown  the  steep  like  a  wave  I  would  leap 

From  the  diamond-ledges  that  jut  from  the  dells; 
For  I  would  not  be  kiss'd  by  all  who  would  list, 
Of  the  bold  merry  mermen  under  the  sea ; 
They  would  sue  me,  and  woo  me,  and  flatter  me. 
In  the  purple  twilights  under  the  sea; 
But  the  king  of  them  all  would  carry  me, 
Woo  me,  and  win  me,  and  marry  me, 
In  the  branching  jaspers  under  the  sea; 
Then  all  the  dry  pied  things  that  be 
In  the  hueless  mosses  under  the  sea 
Would  curl  round  my  silver  feet  silently, 
All  looking  up  for  the  love  of  me. 
And  if  I  should  carol  aloud,  from  aloft 
All  things  that  are  forked,  and  horned,  and  soft 
Would  lean  out  from  the  hollow  sphere  of  the  sea, 
All  looking  down  for  the  love  of  me. 


--^*3i£*«**' 


CIR  C  UMS  TANCE. 


Two  children  in  two  neighbor  villages 
Playing  mad  pranks  along  the  healthy  leas; 
Two  strangers  meeting  at  a  a  festival; 
Two  lovers  whispering  by  an  orchard  wall; 
Two  lives  bound  fast  in  one  with  golden  ease; 
Two  graves  grass-green    beside  a  gray  church- 
tower, 
Wash'd  with  still  rains,  and  daisy-blossom'd ; 
Two  children  in  one  hamlet  born  and  bred; 
So  runs  the  round  of  life  from  hour  to  hour. 


m 


LOVE  AND  DEATH.— TO  JULIET. 


LOVE  AND  DEATH. 


HAT  time  the  mighty  moon  was  gathering  light 
Love  pac'd  the  thymy  plots  of  Paradise, 
And  all  about  him  roll'd  his  lustrous  eyes: 
When,  turning  round  a  cassia,  full  in  view, 
Death,  walking  all  alone  beneath  a  yew, 
And  talking  to  himself,  first  met  his  sight: 
"  You  must  begone,"  said  Death,  "these  walks  are  mine.* 


Love  wept  and  spread  his  sheeny  vans  for  flight; 
Yet  ere  he  parted  said,  "  This  hour  is  thine: 
Thou  a«t  the  shadow  of  life,  and  as  the  tree 
Stands  in  the  sun  and  shadows  all  beneath, 
So  in  the  light  of  great  eternity 
Life  eminent  creates  the  shade  of  death; 
The  shadow  passeth  when  the  tree  shall  fall, 
But  I  shall  reign  forever  over  all." 


■-£3&£lc&C=$<- 


TO  JULIET. 


Sainted  Juliet!  dearest  name! 
If  to  love  be  life  alone, 
Divinest  Juliet, 
I  love  thee,  and  live;  and  yet 
Love  unreturn'd  is  like  the  fragrant  flame 
Folding  the  slaughter  of  the  sacrifice 

Offered  to  gods  upon  an  altar-throne; 
My  heart  is  lighted  at  thine  eyes, 
Chang'd  into  fire,  and  blown  about  with  signs. 


m 


TIMBl'CTOO. 


57 


TIMBUCTOO* 


"Deep  in  that  lion-haunted  inland  lies 
A  mystic  city,  goal  of  high  emprise." 

Chapman. 

r- ' 2£i£  S  Ak^fe'-      ^  1()()D  upon  the  mountain  which  o'erlooks 
r'*&t''     *  rVYlfcl     ^le  narrow  seas>  whose  rapid  interval 


O         1    i        » 


M 


'3; 


n|Mfe^arts  A tYic  from  green  Europe,  when  the  sun 


Had  fall'n  below  th'  Atlantic,  and  above 
The  silent  heavens  were  blench'd  with  fairy  light, 
Uncertain  whether  fairy  light  or  cloud 
Flowing  southward,  and  the  chasms  of  deep,  deep 
blue 

Slumber'd  unfathomable,  and  the  stars 

Were  flooded  over  with  clear  glory  and  pale. 

1  gaz'd  upon  the  sheeny  coast  beyond, 

There  where  the  Giant  of  old  Time  infix'd 

The  limits  of  his  prowess,  pillars  high 

Long  time  eras'd  from  earth :  even  as  the  sea 

When  weary  of  wild  inroad  buildeth  up 

Huge  mounds  whereby  to  stay  his  yeasty  waves. 

And  much  I  mused  on  legends  quaint  and  old 

Which  whilome  won  the  hearts  of  all  on  earth 

Towards  their  brightness,  ev'n  as  flame  draws  air; 

But  had  their  being  in  the  heart  of  man 

As  air  is  th'  life  of  flame:  and  thou  wert  then 

A  centred  glory-circled  memory, 

Divinest  Atalantis,  whom  the  waves 

Have  buried  deep,  and  thou  of  later  name, 

Imperial  Eldorado,  rooPd  with  gold: 

Shadows  to  which,  despite  all  shocks  of  change, 

All  on-set  of  capricious  accident, 

Men  clung  with  yearning  hope  which  would  not  die. 

As  when  in  some  great  city  where  the  walls 

Shake,  and  the  streets  with  ghastly  faces  throng'd, 

Do  utter  forth  a  subterranean  voice, 

Among  the  inner  columns  far  retir'd 

At  midnight,  in  the  lone  Acropolis, 

Before  the  awful  genius  of  the  place 


*  A  Poem  which  obtained  the  Chancellor's  Medal  at  the  Cambridge  Commencement  A.  D.  1829.    By  A. 
t  ennvson,  of  Trinity  College. 


58  TIMBUCTOO. 


Kneels  the  pale  Priestess  in  deep  faith,  the  while 
Above  her  head  the  weak  lamp  dips  and  winks 
Unto  the  fearful  summoning  without: 
Nathless  she  ever  clasps  the  marble  knees, 
Bathes  the  cold  hand  with  tears,  and  gazeth  on 
Those  eyes  which  wear  no  light  but  that  wherewith 
Her  fantasy  informs  them. 

Where  are  ye, 
Thrones  of  the  western  wave,  fair  Islands  green? 
Where  are  your  moonlight  halls,  your  cedarn  glooms, 
The  blossoming  abysses  of  your  hills? 
Your  flowering  capes,  and  your  gold-sanded  bays 
Blown  round  with  happy  airs  of  odorous  winds? 
Where  are  the  infinite  ways,  which,  seraph-trod, 
Wound  thro'  your  great  Elysian  solitudes, 
Whose  lowest  depths  were,  as  with  visible  love, 
Fill'd  with  Divine  effulgence,  circumfus'd, 
Flowing  between  the  clear  and  polish'd  stems. 
And  ever  circling  round  their  emerald  cones 
In  coronals  and  glories,  such  as  gird 
The  unfading  foreheads  of  the  Saints  in  Heaven? 
For  nothing  visible,  they  say,  had  birth 
In  that  blest  ground,  but  it  was  play'd  about 
With  its  peculiar  glory.     Then  I  rais'd 
My  voice  and  cried,  "  Wide  Afric,  doth  thy  sun 
Lighten,  thy  hills  enfold  a  city  as  fair 
As  those  which  starr'd  the  night  o'  the  elder  world? 
Or  is  the  rumor  of  thy  Timbuctoo 
A  dream  as  frail  as  those  of  ancient  time?  " 

A  curb  of  whitening,  flashing,  ebbing  light! 
A  rustling  of  white  wings!  the  bright  descent 
Of  a  young  Seraph!  and  he  stood  beside  me 
There  on  the  ridge,  and  look'd  into  my  face 
With  his  unutterable,  shining  orbs, 
So  that  with  hasty  motion  I  did  veil 
My  vision  with  both  hands,  and  saw  before  me 
Such  color'd  spots  as  dance  athwart  the  eyes 
Of  those  that  gaze  upon  the  noonday  sun. 
Qirt  with  a  zone  of  flashing  gold  beneath 
His  breast,  and  compass'd  round  about  his  brow 
With  triple  arch  of  everchanging  bows, 
And  circl'd  with  the  glory  of  living  light 
And  alternation  of  all  hues,  he  stoodt 


TIMBUCTOO.  59 


"O  child  of  man,  why  muse  you  here  alone 
Upon  the  mountain,  on  the  dreams  of  old 
Which  fill'd  the  earth  with  passing  loveliness, 
Which  flung  strange  music  on  the  howling  winds, 
And  odors  rapt  from  remote  Paradise  ? 
Thy  sense  is  clogg'd  with  dull  mortality  : 
Open  thine  eyes  and  see." 


I  look'd,  but  not 
Upon  his  face,  for  it  was  wonderful 
With  its  exceeding  brightness,  and  the  light 
Of  the  great  Angel  Mind  which  look'd  from  out 
The  starry  glowing  of  his  restless  eyes. 
I  felt  my  soul  grow  mighty,  and  my  spirit 
With  supernatural  excitation  bound 
Within  me,  and  my  mental  eye  grew  large 
With  such  a  vast  circumference  of  thought, 
That  in  my  vanity  I  seem'd  to  stand 
Upon  the  outward  verge  and  bound  alone 
Of  full  beatitude.     Each  failing  sense, 
As  with  a  momentary  flash  of  light, 
Grew  thrillingly  distinct  and  keen.     I  saw 
The  smallest  grain  that  dappled  the  dark  earth, 
The  indistinctest  atom  in  deep  air, 
The  moon's  white  cities,  and  the  opal  width 
Of  her  small  glowing  lakes,  her  silver  heights 
Unvisited  with  dew  of  vagrant  cloud, 
And  the  unsounded,  undescended  depth 
Of  her  black  hollows.     The  clear  galaxy 
Shorn  of  its  hoary  lustre,  wonderful, 
Distinct  and  vivid  with  sharp  points  of  light, 
Blaze  within  blaze,  an  unimagin'd  depth 
And  harmony  of  planet-girded  suns 
And  moon-encircl'd  planets,  wheel  in  wheel, 
Arch'd  the  wan  sapphire.     Nay — the  hum  of  men, 
Or  other  things  talking  in  unknown  tongues, 
And  notes  of  busy  life  in  distant  worlds 
Beat  like  a  far  wave  on  my  anxious  ear. 


A  maze  of  piercing,  trackless,  thrilling  thoughts, 
Involving  and  embracing  each  with  each, 
Rapid  as  fire,  inextricably  link'd, 
Expanding  momently  with  every  sight  , 

And  sound  which  struck  the  palpitating  sense, 
The  issue  of  strong  impulse,  hurried  thro' 


00  TIMBUCTOO. 


The  riven  rapt  brain;  as  when  in  some  large  lake 
From  pressure  of  descendant  crags,  which  lapse 
Disjointed,  crumbling  from  their  parent  slope 
At  slender  interval,  the  level  calm 
Is  ridgV]  with  restless  and  increasing  spheres 
Which  break  upon  each  other,  each  th'  effect 
Of  separate  impulse,  but  more  fleet  and  strong 
Than  its  precursor,  till  the  eye  in  vain 
Amid  the  wild  unrest  of  swimming  shade 
Dappl'd  with  hollow  and  alternate  rise 
Of  interpenetrated  arc,  would  scan 
Definite  round. 

I  know  not  if  I  shape 
These  things  with  accurate  similitude 
From  visible  objects,  for  but  dimly  now, 
Less  vivid  than  a  half-forgotten  dream, 
The  memory  of  that  mental  excellence 
Comes  o'er  me,  and  it  may  be  I  entwine 
The  indecision  of  my  present  mind 
With  its  past  clearness,  yet  it  seems  to  me 
As  even  then  the  torrent  of  quick  thought 
Absorb'd  me  from  the  nature  of  itself 
With  its  own  fleetness.     Where  is  he,  that  borne 
Adown  the  sloping  of  an  arrowy  stream, 
Could  link  his  shallop  to  the  fleeting  edge, 
And  muse  midway  with  philosophic  calm 
Upon  the  wondrous  laws  which  regulate 
The  fierceness  of  the  bounding  element? 

My  thoughts  which  long  had  grovell'd  in  the  slime 
Of  this  dull  world,  like  dusky  worms  which  house 
Beneath  unshaken  waters,  but  at  once 
Upon  some  earth-awakening  day  of  spring 
Do  pass  from  gloom  to  glory,  and  aloft 
Winnow  the  purple,  bearing  on  both  sides 
Double  display  of  star-lit  wings,  which  burn 
Fan-like  and  fibred  with  intensest  bloom; 
Even  so  my  thoughts  erewhile  so  low,  now  felt 
Unutterable  buoyancy  and  strength 
To  bear  them  upward  through  the  trackless  fields 
Of  undefin'd  existence  far  and  free. 

Then  first  within  the  South  methought  I  saw 
A  wilderness  of  spires  and  crystal  pile 


TIMBUCTOO.  61 


Of  rampart  upon  rampart,  dome  on  dome, 
Illimitable  range  of  battlement 
On  battlement,  and  the  Imperial  height 
Of  canopy  o'ercanopied. 

Behind 
In  diamond  light  upspring  the  dazzling  peaks 
Of  Pyramids,  as  far  surpassing  earth's 
As  heaven  than  earth  is  fairer.     Each  aloft 
Upon  his  narrow'd  eminence  bore  globes 
Of  wheeling  suns,  or  stars,  or  semblances 
Of  either,  showering  circular  abyss 
Of  radiance.     But  the  glory  of  the  place 
Stood  out  a  pillar'd  front  of  burnish'd  gold, 
Interminably  high,  if  gold  it  were 
Of  metal  more  ethereal,  and  beneath 
Two  doors  of  blinding  brilliance,  where  no  gaze 
Might  rest,  stood  open,  and  the  eye  could  scan, 
Thro'  lengths  of  porch  and  valve  and  boundless  hall, 
Part  of  a  throne  of  fiery  flame,  wherefrom 
The  snowy  skirting  of  a  garment  hung, 
And  glimpse  of  multitude  of  multitudes 
That  minister'd  around  it — if  I  saw 
These  things  distinctly,  for  my  human  brain 
Stagger'd  beneath  the  vision,  and  thick  night 
Came  down  upon  my  eyelids,  and  I  fell. 

With  ministering  hand  he  rais'd  me  up: 
Then  with  a  mournful  and  ineffable  smile, 
Which  but  to  look  on  for  a  moment  fill'd 
My  eyes  with  irresistible  sweet  tears, 
In  accents  of  majestic  melody, 
Like  a  swoln  river's  gushings  in  still  night 
Mingl'd  with  floating  music,  thus  he  spake: 

"  There  is  no  mightier  Spirit  than  I  to  sway 
The  heart  of  man:  and  teach  him  to  attain 
By  shadowing  forth  the  Unattainable; 
And  step  by  step  to  scale  that  mighty  stair 
Whose  landing-place  is  wrapt  abo^it  with  clouds 
Of  glory  of  heaven.*     With  earliest  light  of  spring, 
And  in  the  glow  of  sallow  summer-ride, 
And  in  red  autumn  when  the  winds  are  wild 

•  "  Be  ye  perfect,  even  as  your  Father  jn  heaven  is  perfect." 


62  TiMBUcroo. 


With  gambols,  and  when  full-voiced  winter  roofs 

The  headlands  with  inviolate  white  snow, 

I  play  about  his  heart  a  thousand  ways, 

Visit  his  eyes  with  visions,  and  his  ears 

With  harmonies  of  wind  and  wave  and  wood, 

— Of  winds  which  tell  of  waters,  and  of  waters 

Betraying  the  close  kisses  of  the  wind — 

And  win  him  unto  me,  and  few  there  be 

So  gross  of  heart  who  have  not  felt  and  known 

A  higher  than  they  see:  they  with  dim  eyes 

Behold  me  darkling.     Lo!  I  have  given  thee 

To  understand  my  presence,  and  to  feel 

My  fulness :  I  have  fill'd  thy  lips  with  power, 

I  have  rais'd  thee  nigher  to  the  spheres  of  heaven, 

Man's  first,  last  home:  and  thou  with  ravish'd  sense 

Listenest  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 

The  illimitable  years.     I  am  the  Spirit, 

The  permeating  life  which  courseth  thro' 

All  th'  intricate  and  labyrinthine  veins 

Of  the  great  vine  of  Fable,  which,  outspread 

With  growth  of  shadowing  leaf  and  clusters  rare 

Reacheth  to  every  corner  under  heaven, 

Deep-rooted  in  the  living  soil  of  truth ; 

So  that  men's  hopes  and  fears  take  refuge  in 

The  fragrance  of  its  complicated  glooms, 

And  cool  impeached  twilights.     Child  of  man, 

Seest  thou  yon  river,  whose  translucent  wave, 

Forth  issuing  from  the  darkness,  windeth  through 

The  argent  streets  o'  the  city,  imaging 

The  soft  inversion  of  her  tremulous  domes, 

Her  gardens  frequent  with  the  stately  palm, 

Her  pagods  hung  with  music  of  sweet  bells, 

Her  obelisks  of  ranged  chrysolite, 

Minarets  and  towers?     Lo!  how  he  passeth  by, 

And  gulfs  himself  in  sands,  as  not  enduring 

To  carry  thro'  the  world  those  waves,  which  bore 

The  reflex  of  my  city  in  their  depth. 

O  city!  O  latest  throne!  where  I  was  rais'd 

To  be  a  mystery  of  loveliness 

Unto  all  eyes,  the  time  has  well-nigh  come 

When  I  must  render  up  this  glorious  home 

To  keen  Discovery;  soon  yon  brilliant  towers 

Shall  darken  with  the  waving  of  her  wand; 

Darken  and  shrink  and  shiver  into  huts, 

Black  specks  amid  a  waste  of  dreary  sand, 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 


63 


Low-built,  mud-wall\l,  barbarian  settlements. 
How  changed  from  this  fair  city!" 

Thus  far  the  Spirit: 
Then  parted  heavenward  on  the  wing:  and  I 
Was  left  alone  on  Calpe,  and  the  moon 
Had  fallen  from  the  night,  and  all  was  dark  I 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 


OICE  of  the  summer  wind, 
Joy  of  the  summer  plain, 
t^Life  of  the  summer  hours, 
k$  Carol  clearly,  bound  along. 

No  Tithon  thou  as  poets  feign 
(Shame  fall  'em,  they  are  deaf  and  blind), 
But  an  insect  lithe  and  strong, 
Bowing  the  seeded  summer  flowers. 
Prove  their  falsehood  and  thy  quarrel, 

Vaulting  on  thine  airy  feet. 
Clap  thy  shielded  sides  and  carol, 

Carol  clearly,  chirrup  sweet. 
Thou  art  a  mailed  warrior  in  youth  and  strength  com- 
plete 
Arm'd  cap-a-pie, 
Full  fair  to  see ; 
Unknowing  fear, 
Und reading  loss, 
A  gallant  cavalier, 
Sans  peur  et  sans  reproche^ 
In  sunlight  and  in  shadow, 
The  Bayard  of  the  meadow. 


I  would  dwell  with  thee, 
Merry  grasshopper, 

Thou  art  so  glad  and  free, 
And  as  light  as  air; 


64 


TO  A  LADY  SLEEPING. 


Thou  hast  no  sorrow  or  tears, 
Thou  hast  no  compt  of  years, 
No  wither'd  immortality, 
But  a  short  youth,  sunny  and  free 
Carol  clearly,  bound  along, 

Soon  thy  joy  is  over, 
A  summer  of  loud  song, 
And  slumbers  in  the  clover. 
What  hast  thou  to  do  with  evil 
In  thine  hour  of  love  and  revel, 

In  thy  heat  of  summer  pride, 
Pushing  the  thick  roots  aside 
Of  the  singing  flower'd  grasses, 
That  brush  thee  with  their  silken  tresses? 
What  hast  thou  to  do  with  evil, 
Shooting,  singing,  ever  springing 

In  and  out  the  emerald  glooms, 
Ever  leaping,  ever  singing, 

Lighting  on  the  golden  blooms? 


TO  A  LADT  SLEEPING. 


\  THOU  whose  fringed  lids  I  gaze  upon, 
Thro'  whose  dim  brain  the  wing'd  dreams  are  borne, 
Unroof  the  shrines  of  clearest  vision, 
In  honor  of  the  silver-flecked  morn; 
Long  hath  the  white  wave  of  the  virgin  light 
Driven  back  the  billow  of  the  dreamful  dark. 
Thou  all  unwittingly  prolongest  night, 
Though  long  ago  listening  the  poised  lark, 
With  eyes  dropt  downward  thro'  the  blue  serene, 

Over  heaven's  parapet  the  angels  lean. 


CHORUS. 


05 


CHORUS, 


IN    AN    UNPUBLISHED    DRAMA,  WRITTEN    VERY    EARLY. 


K$>     P) 


HE  varied  earth,  the  moving  heaven, 

The  rapid  waste  of  roving  sea, 
The  fountain-pregnant  mountains  riven 

To  shapes  of  wildest  anarchy, 
By  secret  fire  and  midnight  storms 

That  wander  round  their  windy  cone*, 
The  subtle  life,  the  countless  forms 
Of  living  things,  the  wondrous  tones 
Of  man  and  beast  are  full  of  strange 
Astonishment  and  boundless  change. 

The  day,  the  diamond'd  night, 

The  echo,  feeble  child  of  sound, 
The  heavy  thunder's  griding  might, 

The  herald  lightning's  starry  bound, 
The  vocal  spring  of  bursting  bloom, 
The  naked  summer's  glowing  birth, 
The  troublous  autumn's  sallow  gloom, 
The  hoar-head  winter  paving  earth 
With  sheeny  white,  are  full  of  strange 
Astonishment  and  boundless  change. 


Each  sun  which  from  the  centre  flings 

Grand  music  and  redundant  fire, 
The  burning  belts,  the  mighty  rings, 

The  murm'rous  planets'  rolling  choir, 
The  globe-filled  arch  that,  cleaving  air, 

Lost  in  its  own  effulgence  sleeps, 
The  lawless  comets  as  they  glare 

And  thunder  through  the  sapphire  deeps 
In  wayward  strength,  are  full  of  strange 
Astonishment  and  boundless  change. 


06 


NATIONAL  SONG. 


NATIONAL  SONG. 

HERE  is  no  land  like  England 
Where'er  the  light  of  day  be; 
There  are  no  hearts  like  English  nearts. 

Such  hearts  of  oak  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be*, 
There  are  no  men  like  Englishmen, 
So  tall  and  bold  as  they  be. 


CHORUS. 

For  the  French  the  Pope  may  shrive  'em 
For  the  devil  a  whit  we  heed  'em : 
As  for  the  French,  God  speed  'em 

Unto  their  heart's  desire, 
And  the  merry  devil  drive  'em 

Through  the  water  and  the  fire. 


FULL    CHORUS. 

Our  glory  is  our  freedom, 
We  lord  it  o'er  the  sea; 
We  are  the  sons  of  freedom, 
We  are  free. 


There  is  no  land  like  England, 
Where'er  the  light  of  day  be; 

There  are  no  wives  like  English  wives, 
So  fair  and  chaste  as  they  be. 


ENGLISH  WAR  SONG. 


There  is  no  land  like  England, 
Where'er  the  light  of  day  be; 

There  are  no  maids  like  English  maids 
So  beautiful  as  they  be. 

Cho. — For  the  French,  etc 


ENGLISH  WAR  SONG. 


HO  fears  to  die?     Who  fears  to  die? 
Is  there  any  here  who  fears  to  die? 
lie  shall  find  what  he  fcars;  and  none  shall  grieve 
For  the  man  who  fcars  to  die; 
For  the  withering  scorn  of  the  many  shall  cleave 
To  the  man  who  fears  to  die. 

CHORUS. 

Shout  lor  England! 
Ho!  for  England! 
George  for  England! 
Merry  England! 
England  for  aye! 

The  hollow  at  heart  shall  crouch  forlorn, 

He  shall  eat  the  bread  of  common  scorn; 
It  shall  be  steep'd  in  the  salt,  salt  tear, 

Shall  be  steep'd  in  his  own  salt  tear: 
Far  better,  far  better  he  never  were  born 

Than  to  shame  merry  England  here. 

Cho. — Shout  for  England!  etc. 


There  standeth  our  ancient  enemy; 

Hark!  he  shouteth — the  ancient  enemy! 
On  the  ridge  of  the  hill  his  banners  rise; 

They  stream  like  fire  in  the  skies; 
Hold  up  the  Lion  of  England  on  high 

Till  it  dazzle  and  blind  his  eyes. 

Cho. — Shout  for  England!  etc. 


68 


LOVE. 


Come  along!  we  alone  of  the  earth  are  free; 
The  child  in  our  cradles  is  bolder  than  he; 
For  where  is  the  heart  and  strength  of  slaves? 

Oh!  where  is  the  strength  of  slaves? 
He  is  weak!  we  are  strong:  he  a  slave,  we  are  free 
Come  along!  we  will  dig  their  graves. 

Cho. — Shout  for  England!  etc. 


There  standeth  our  ancient  enemy; 

Will  he  dare  to  battle  with  the  free  ? 
Spur  along!  spur  amain!  charge  to  the  fight; 

Charge!  charge  to  the  fight! 
Hold  up  the  Lion  of  England  on  high! 

Shout  for  God  and  our  right. 

Cho. — Shout  for  England!  etc. 


I  *IjOYE.^  || 

~v~-,:?S     ^K'X 


HlOU,  from  the  first,  unborn,  undying  Love, 
?0lj>f  Albeit  we  gaze  not  on  thy  glories  near, 
^•Before  the  face  of  God  didst  breathe  and  move, 

Though  night  and  pain  and  ruin  and  death  reign  here. 

Thou  foldest,  like  a  golden  atmosphere, 

Tne  very  throne  of  the  eternal  God: 

Passing  through  thee  the  edicts  of  his  fear 

Are  mellow'd  into  music,  borne  abroad 

By  the  loud  winds,  though  they  uprend  the  sea, 

Even  from  its  central  deeps:  thine  empery 

Is  over  all:  thou  wilt  not  brook  eclipse: 

Thou  goest  and  returnest  to  His  lips 

Like  lightning :  thou  dost  ever  brood  above 

The  silence  of  all  hearts,  unutterable  Love. 


To  know  thee  is  all  wisdom,  and  old  age 
Is  but  to  know  thee :  dimly  we  behold  thee 
Athwart  the  veils  of  evils  which  infold  thee. 


LOVE. 


69 


We  beat  upon  our  aching  hearts  in  rage; 

We  cry  for  thee;  we  deem  the  world  thy  tomb. 

As  dwellers  in  lone  planets  look  upon 

The  mighty  disk  of  their  majestic  sun, 

HollowM  in  awful  chasms  of  wheeling  gloom, 

Making  their  day  dim,  so  we  gaze  on  thee. 

Come,  thou  of  many  crowns,  white-robed  Love, 

Oh!  rend  the  veil  in  twain:  all  men  adore  thee; 

Heaven  crieth  after  thee;  earth  waiteth  for  thee; 

Breathe  on  thy  winged  throne,  and  it  shall  move 

In  music  and  in  light  o'er  land  and  sea. 

And  now — methinks  I  gaze  upon  thee  now, 

As  on  a  serpent  in  his  agonies 

Awe-stricken  Indians;  what  time  laid  low 

And  crushing  the  thick  fragrant  reeds  he  lies, 

When  the  new  year  warm-breathed  on  the  earth, 

Waiting  to  light  him  with  her  purple  skied, 

Calls  to  him  by  the  fountain  to  uprise, 

Already  with  the  pangs  of  a  new  birth 

Strain  the  hot  spheres  of  his  convulsed  eyes, 

And  in  his  writhings  awful  hues  begin      * 

To  wander  down  his  sable-sheeny  sides, 

Like  light  on  troubled  waters:  from  within 

Anon  he  rusheth  forth  with  merry  din, 

And  in  him  light  and  joy  and  strength  abides; 

And  from  his  brows  a  crown  of  living  light 

Looks  through  the  thick-stemm'd  woods  by  day  and  nigr 


70 


THE  "HOW"  AND  THE  "  WHT" 


THE  "HOW"  AND   THE  "WHT." 


AM   any  man's  suitor, 
If  any  will  be  my  tutor: 
Some  say  this  life  is  pleasant, 
Some  think  it  speedeth  fast, 
In  time  there  is  no  present, 
In  eternity  no  future, 
In  eternity  no  past. 
We  laugh,  we  cry,  we  are  born,  we  die, 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the  why  P 


The  bulrush  nods  unto  its  brother. 

The  wheat-ears  whisper  to  each  other: 

What  is  it  they  say?  what  do  they  there? 

Why  two  and  two  make  four?  why  round  is  not  square? 

Why  the  rock  stands  still,  and  the  light  clouds  fly? 


Why  the  heavy  oak  groans,  and  the  white  willows  sigh? 

Why  deep  is  not  high,  and  high  is  not  deep? 

Whether  we  wake  or  whether  we  sleep? 

Whether  we  sleep,  or  whether  we  die? 

How  you  are  you?   why  I  am  I? 

Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the  why? 


"The  little  bird  pipeth— why?  why?' 


Of   tloures.  7.1 


The  world  is  somewhat;  it  goes  on  somehow: 
But  what  is  the  meaning  of  then  and  now? 
I  feel  there-  Is  something;    but  how  and  what? 
I  know  there  is  somewhat:  but  what  and  why? 
1  cannot  tell  if  that  somewhat  be  I. 

The  little  bird  pipeth — "why?  why?" 
In  the  summer  woods  when  the  sun  falls  low, 
And  the  great  bird  sits  on  the  opposite  bough, 
And  stans  in  his  face  and  shouts  u  how?   how?  " 
And  the  black  owl  scuds  down  the  mellow  twilight, 
And  chants  "how?  how?  "  the  whole  of  the  night. 

Why  the  life  goes  out  when  the  blood  is  spilt? 

What  the  life  is?  where  the  soul  may  lie? 
Why  a  church  ii  with  a  steeple  built: 
And  a  house   with  a  chimney-pot? 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the  what? 

Who  will  riddle  me  the  what  and  the  whv? 


Of   fiiourzt;. 


LL  thoughts,  all  creeds,  all  dreams  are  true, 

All  visions  wild  and  strange: 
Man  is  the  measure  of  all  truth 

Unto  himself.     All  truth  is  change. 
All  men  do  walk  in  sleep,  and  all 
Have  faith  in  that  thev  dream: 
For  all  things  are  as  thev  seem  to  all, 
And  all  things  How  like  a  stream. 

There  is  no  rest,  no  calm,  no  pause, 

Nor  good  nor  ill,  nor  light  nor  shade, 
Nor  essence  nor  eternal  laws: 

For  nothing  i>,  but  all  is  made. 
But  if  I  dream  that  all  these  are, 

They  are  to  me  for  that  I  dream; 
For  all  things  are  as  they  seem  to  all, 

And  all  things  flow  like  a  stream. 

Argal — this  very  opinion  is  only  true  relatively  to  the  flowing  philosophers. 


72 


DUALISMS. 


DUALISMS. 


=- WO  bees  within  a  crystal  flower-bell  locked, 
Hum  a  love-lay  to  the  west  wind  at  noon-tide 
Both  alike,  they  buzz  together, 
Both  alike,  they  hum  together, 
Thro'  and  thro'  the  flower'd  heather. 
Where  in  a  creeping  cove  the  wave  unshocked 
Lays  itself  calm  and  wide, 


Over  a  stream  two  birds  of  glancing  feather 
Do  woo  each  other,  carolling  together. 
Both  alike,  they  glide  together, 

Side  by  side ; 
Both  alike,  they  sing  together, 
Arching  blue-glossed  necks  beneath  the  purple  weather. 


Two  children  lovelier  tlran  Love  adown  the  lea  are  singing 
As  they  gambol,  lily-garlands  ever  stringing: 
Both  in  blosm-white  silk  are  frocked: 

Like,  unlike,  they  roam  together 

Under  a  summer  vault  of  golden  weather: 

Like,  unlike,  they  sing  together 
Side  by  side, 

Mid-May's  darling  golden  locked, 

Summer's  tanling  diamond-eyed. 


LOVE,  PRIDE,  AND  FORGETFULNESS.—LOST  HOPE. 


73 


LOVE,  PRIDE,  AND  FORGE  TFULNESS. 


RE  yet  my  heart  was  sweet  Love's  tomb, 
Love  labor'd  honey  busily. 
I  was  the  hive  and  Love  the  bee, 
My  heart  the  honeycomb. 
One  very  dark  and  chilly  night 
Pride  came  beneath  and  held  a  light. 

The  cruel  vapors  went  through  all, 
Sweet  Love  was  witherM  in  his  cell; 
Pride  took  Love's  sweets,  and  by  a  spell 
Did  change  them  into  gall; 
And  Memory,  though  fed  by  Pride. 
Did  wax  so  thin  on  gall, 
Awhile  she  scarcely  liv'd  at  all. 
What  marvel  that  she  died? 


LOST  HOPE. 


You  cast  to  ground  the  hope  which  once  was  mine: 
But  did  the  while  your  harsh  decree  deplore, 

Embalming  with  sweet  tears  the  vacant  shrine, 

My  heart,  where  Hope  had  been  and  was  no  more. 


So  on  an  oaken  sprout 

A  goodly  acorn  grew; 
But  winds  from  heaven  shook  the  acorn  out, 

And  fill'd  the  cup  with  dew. 


74 


LOVE  AND  SORROW. 


LOVE  AND  SORROW. 


lea 


pisaf1  MAIDEN,  fresher  than  the  first  green  leaf 
ma:  With  which  the  fearful  springtide  flecks  the  \t 
Hlj?  Weep  not,  Almeida,  that  I  said  to  thee 

That  thou  hast  half  my  heart,  for  bitter  grief 
Doth  hold  the  other  half  in  sovranty. 
Thou  art  my  heart's  sun  in  love's  crystalline:    . 
Yet  on  both  sides  at  once  thou  canst  not  shine ; 
Thine  is  the  bright  side  of  my  heart   and  thine 
My  heart's  day,  but  the  shadow  of  my  heart, 
Issue  of  its  own  substance,  my  heart's  night 
Thou  canst  not  lighten  even  with  thy  light, 
All-powerful  in  beauty  as  thou  art. 
Almeida,  if  my  heart  were  substanceless, 
Then  might  thy  rays  pass  thro'  to  the  other  side, 
So  swiftly,  that  they  nowhere  would  abide, 
But  lose  themselves  in  utter  emptiness. 
Half-light,  half-shadow,  let  my  spirit  sleep: 
They  never  learn'd  to  love  who  never  knew  to  weep. 


*mm 


UN  NETS. 


75 


SONNETS. 


HE  lintwhite  and  the  throstlecock, 
Have  voices  sweet  and  clear; 
All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
They  from  the  blosmy  brere 
Call  to  the  fleeting  year, 
If  that  he  would  them  hear 

And  stay. 
Alas!  that  one  so  beautiful 
Should  have  so  dull  an  ear. 


Fair  year,  fair  year,  thy  children  call, 
But  thou  art  deaf  as  death ; 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
When  thy  light  perisheth 
That  from  thee  issueth, 
Our  life  evanisheth: 

O,  stay ! 
Alas!  that  lips  so  cruel-dumb 
Should  have  so  sweet  a  breath ! 


Fair  year,  with  brows  of  royal  love 

Thou  comest,  as  a  king, 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
Thy  golden  largess  fling, 
And  longer  hear  us  sing; 
Though  thou  art  fleet  of  wing, 


76 


SONNETS. 

Yet  stay. 
Alas!  that  eyes  so  full  of  light 
Should  be  so  wandering! 

Thy  locks  are  all  of  sunny  sheen, 
In  rings  of  gold  yronne,* 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
We  pri'thee  pass  not  on ; 
If  thou  dost  leave  the  sun, 
Delight  is  with  thee  gone. 
O,  stay ! 
Thou  art  the  fairest  of  thy  feres, 
We  pri'thee  pass  not  on. 


II. 


Though  Night  hath  climb'd  her  peak  of  highest  noon, 

And  bitter  blasts  the  screaming  autumn  whirl, 

All  night  thro'  archways  of  the  bridged  pearl, 

And  portals  of  pure  silver,  walks  the  moon. 

Walk  on,  my  soul,  nor  crouch  to  agony, 

Turn  cloud  to  light,  and  bitterness  to  joy, 

And  dross  to  gold  with  glorious  alchemy, 

Basing  thy  throne  above  the  world's  annoy. 

Reign  thou  above  the  storms  of  sorrow  and  ruth 

That  roar  beneath;  unshaken  peace  hath  won  thee; 

So  shalt  thou  pierce  the  woven  glooms  of  truth; 

So  shall  the  blessing  of  the  meek  be  on  thee; 

So  in  thine  hour  of  dawn,  the  body's  youth, 

An  honorable  eld  shall  come  upon  thee. 


III. 


Shall  the  hag  Evil  die  with  child  of  Good, 

Or  propagate  again  her  loathed  kind, 

Thronging  the  cells  of  the  diseased  mind, 

Hateful  with  hanging  cheeks,  a  wither'd  brood, 

Though  hourly  pastur'd  on  the  salient  blood? 

O  that  the  wind  which  bloweth  cold  or  heat 

Would  shatter  and  o'erbear  the  brazen  beat 

Of  their  broad  vans,  and  in  the  solitude 

Of  middle  space  confound  them,  and  blow  back 

Their  wild  cries  down  their  cavern  throats,  and  slake 

With  points  of  blast-borne  hail  their  heated  eyne! 

*  "His  crispe'  hair  in  ring-lis  was  yronne."— Chaucer,  Knightes  Tale. 


SONNETS.  77 


So  their  wan  limbs  no  more  might  come  between 
The  moon  and  the  moon's  reflex  in  the  night, 
Nor  blot  with  floating  shades  the  solar  light. 


IV. 


I'  the  glooming  light 

Of  middle  night 

So  cold  and  white, 
Worn  Sorrow  sits  by  the  moaning  wave, 

Beside  her  are  laid 

Her  mattock  and  spade, 
For  she  hath  half  delv'd  her  own  deep  grave. 

Alone  she  is  there; 
The  white  clouds  drizzle:  her  hair  falls  loose: 

Her  shoulders  are  bare; 
Her  tears  are  mix'd  with  the  beaded  dews. 

Death  standeth  by; 

She  will  not  die; 

With  glaz'd  eye 
She  looks  at  her  grave:  she  cannot  sleep; 

Ever  alone 

She  makcth  her  moan  : 
She  cannot  speak:   she  can  only  weep, 

For  she  will  not  hope. 
The  thick  snow  falls  on  her  flake  by  flake, 

The  dull  wave  mourns  down  the  slope, 
The  world  will  not  change,  and  her  heart  will  not  break. 

V. 

Could  I  outwear  my  present  state  of  woe 
With  one  brief  winter,  and  indue  i1  the  spring 
11  iK-  of  fresh  youth,  and  mightily  outgrow 

That  wan  dark  coil  <>f  faded  Buffering — 
Forth  in  the  pride  of  beauty  issuing 
A  sheeny  snake,  the  light  of  vernal  bowers, 
Moving  his  crest  to  all  sweet  plots  of  flowers 
And  watered  valleys  where  the  young  birds  sing; 
Could  I  thus  hope  my  lost  delight's  renewing, 
I  straightly  would  command  the  tears  to  creep 
From  my  charg'd  lids;  but  inwardly  I  weep; 
Some  vital  heat  as  yet  my  heart  is  wooing; 
That  to  itself  hath  drawn  the  frozen  rain 
From  my  cold  eyes,  and  melted  it  again. 


78  SOJVJVETS. 


VI. 


The  pallid  thunder-stricken  sigh  for  gain, 

Down  an  ideal  stream  they  ever  float, 

And  sailing  on  Pactolus  in  a  boat, 

Drown  soul  and  sense,  while  wistfully  they  strain 

Weak  eyes  upon  the  glistening  sands  that  robe 

The  understream.     The  wise,  could  he  behold 

Cathedral'd  caverns  of  thick-ribbed  gold 

And  branching  silvers  of  the  central  globe, 

Would  marvel  from  so  beautiful  a  sight 

How  scorn  and  ruin,  pain  and  hate  could  flow: 

But  Hatred  in  a  gold  cave  sits  below ; 

Pleach'd  with  her  hair,  in  mail  of  argent  light 

Shot  into  gold,  a  snake  her  forehead  clips, 

And  skins  the  color  from  her  trembling  lips. 


VII. 


Every  day  hath  its  night: 

Every  night  its  morn: 
Thorough  dark  and  bright 
Winged  hours  are  borne 
Ah!  welaway! 
Seasons  flower  and  fade; 
Golden  calm  and  storm 

Mingle  day  by  day. 
There  is  no  bright  form 
Doth  not  cast  a  shade — 
Ah!  welaway! 


When  we  laugh,  and  our  mirth 

Apes  the  happy  vein, 
We're  so  kin  to  earth, 

Pleasaunce  fathers  pain — • 
Ah!  welaway! 
Madness  laugheth  loud: 
Laughter  bringeth  tears: 
Eyes  are  worn  away 
Till  the  end  of  fears 
Cometh  in  the  shroud, 
Ah!  welaway! 


SOXXETS. 


All  is  change,  woe  or  weal; 

Joy  is  Sorrow's  brother; 

Grief  and  gladness  steal 

Symbols  of  each  other: 

Ah!  welaway! 

Larks  in  heaven's  cope 

Sing:  the  culvers  mourn 

All  the  livelong  day. 
Be  not  all  forlorn: 
Let  us  weep  in  hope — 
Ah!  welaway  1 

VIII. 
THE  TEARS  OF  HEAVEN. 


•  EAVEN  weeps  above  the  earth  all  night  till  morn, 
RJf  I"  darkness  weeps,  as  all  asham'd  to  weep, 
**  Because  the  earth  hath  made  her  state  forlorn 
With  self-wrought  evil  of  unnumber'd  years, 
And  doth  the  fruit  of  her  dishonor  reap. 
And  all  the  day  heaven  gathers  back  her  tears 
Into  her  own  blue  eyes  so  clear  and  deep, 
And  showering  down  the  glory  of  lightsome  day, 
Smiles  on  the  earth's  worn  brow  to  win  her  if  she  may. 


XtDfliflttttHiflef  dtoOttiMftf  idttfltifitfttHMM 


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PUBMJS 

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THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


83 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


PART    I. 


tf  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky; 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many  tower'd  Camelot; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 
The  island  of  Shalott. 


Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  forever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 
Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 
The  Lady  of  Shalott 


By  the  margin,  willow-veiPd, 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail'd 
By  slow  horses;  and  unhail'd 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sailM 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot: 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land 

The  Lady  of  Shalott? 


Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 
Down  to  tower'd  Camelot; 


SI 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers,  "  'Tis  the  fairy 
Lady  of  Shalott." 


PART    II. 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  of  colors  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  thro'  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot: 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-hair'd  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  tower'd  Camelot ; 
And  sometimes  thro*  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights, 
For  often  through  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights, 
And  music,  went  to  Camelot; 


THE  LADT  OF  SHALOTT. 


85 


Or  wnen  the  moon  was  overhead, 
Came  two  young  lovers,  lately  wed: 
"I  am  half-sick  of  shadows,"  said 
The  Lady  of  Shalott 


PART    III, 


A  bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves, 

He  rode  between  the  barley-sheavt 

The  sun  came  dazzling  through  the  leaves. 

And  flam'd  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

— Of  hold  Sir  Lancelot. 

A  red-cross  knight  forever  kneel'd 

To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 

That  sparkPd  on  the  yellow  iield, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 


m 


THE  LADT  OF  SHALOTT. 


The  gemmy  bridle  glitter'd  free, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot: 
And  from  his  blazen'd  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 


All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick -jewelFd  shone  the  saddle-leather. 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burn'd  like  one  burning  flame  together, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
As  often  thro'  the  purple  night, 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 

Moves  over  still  Shalott, 


THE  LADT  OF  SHALOTT. 


S7 


His  broad  clear  brow  iii  sunlight  glowM: 

On  burnish'd  hooves  his  war-horse  trode; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flow'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
lie  llashM  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"  Tina  lirra,"  by  the   rivet 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  thro'  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 
She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 


Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide; 
The  mirror  crack'd  from  side  to  side; 
u  The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 
The  Ladv  of  Shalott. 


88  THE  LADT  OF  SHALOTT. 


PART   IV. 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower'd  Camelot; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat, 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse — 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loos'd  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay ; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot, 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.   * 

Heard  her  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darken'd  wholly, 

Turn'd  to  tower'd  Camelot; 
For  ere  she  reach'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


THE  LADr  OF  SHALOTT. 


Under  tower  and  balcony, 
By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 
A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 
A  cone  between  the  houses  high, 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came, 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame, 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this?   and  what  is  here? 

And  in  the  Lighted  palace  near 

Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer; 

And  they  cross'd   themselves  for  fear, 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot: 
But  Lancelot  mus'd  a  little  space: 
He  said,  "  She  lias  a  lovely  lace; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 


90 


MARIANA  IN  THE  SOUTH. 


MARIANA  IN  THE  SOUTH. 


ITH  one  black  shadow  at  its  feet, 

The  house  thro'  all  the  level  shines, 
Close-lattic'd  to  the  brooding  heat, 

And  silent  in  its  dusty  vines: 
A  faint-blue  ridge  upon  the  right, 

An  empty  river-bed  before, 
And  shallows  on  a  distant  shore, 
In  glaring  sand  and  inlets  bright. 

But  "  Ave  Mary,"  made  she  moan, 

And  "  Ave  Mary,"  night  and  morn, 
And  "Ah,"  she  sang,  "  to  be  all  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn." 

She,  as  her  carol  sadder  grew, 

From  brow  and  bosom  slowly  down 
Thro'  rosy  taper  fingers  drew 

Her  streaming  curls  of  deepest  brown 
To  left  and  right,  and  made  appear, 
Still  lighted  in  a  secret  shrine, 
Her  melancholy  eyes  divine, 
The  home  of  woe  without  a  tear. 

And  "  Ave  Mary,"  was  her  moan, 

"  Madonna,  sad  is  night  and  morn  "  ; 
And  "  Ah,"  she  sang,  "  to  be  all  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn." 


Till  all  the  crimson  chang'd,  and  past 

Into  deep  orange  o'er  the  sea, 
Low  on  her  knees  herself  she  cast, 
Before  Our  Lady  murmur'd  she; 
Complaining,  "  Mother,  give  me  grace 
To  help  me  of  my  weary  load." 
And  on  the  liquid  mirror  glow'd 
The  clear  perfection  of  her  face. 

"  Is  this  the  form,"  she  made  her  moan, 

"  That  won  his  praises  night  and  morn?'* 
And  "  Ah,"  she  said, "  but  I  wake  alone, 
I  sleep  forgotten,  I  wake  forlorn." 


X 


**  Nor  bird  would  sing,  nor  lamb  would  bleat'* 


MAR/ AN  A  IN  THE  SOUTH.  91 

Nor  bird  would  sing,  nor  lamb  would  bleat, 

Nor  any  cloud  would  cross  the  vault, 
But  day  increas'd  from  heat  to  heat, 

On  stony  drought  and  steaming  salt; 
Till  now  at  noon  she  slept  again, 

And  seem'd  knee-deep  in   mountain  grass, 
And  heard  her  native  breezes  pass, 
And  runlets  babbling  down  the  glen. 

She  breath'd  in  sleep  a  lower  moan, 

And  murmuring,  as  at  night  and  morn, 
She  thought,  "  My  spirit  is  here  alone, 
Walks  forgotten,  and  is  forlorn." 

Dreaming,  she  knew  it  was  a  dream : 
She  felt  he  was  and  was  not  there. 
She  woke:   the  babble  of  the  stream 
Fell,  and  without  the  steady  glare 
Shrank  one  sick  willow  sere  and  small. 
The  river-bed  was  dusty-white; 
And  all  the  furnace  of  the  light 
Struck  up  against  the  blinding  wall. 

She  whisper'd,  with  a  stifled  moan 

More  inward  than  at  night  or  mom, 
"  Sweet  Mother,  let  me  not  here  alone 
Live  forgotten  and  die  forlorn." 

And,  rising,  from  her  bosom  drew 

Old  letters  breathing  of  her  worth, 
For  «*  Love,"  they  said,  "  must  needs  be  true, 

To  what  is  loveliest  upon  earth." 
An  image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door. 
To  look  at  her  with  slight,  and  say, 
"  But  now  thy  beauty  flows  away, 
So  be  alone  forevermore." 

"  O  cruel  heart,"  she  chang'd  her  tone, 
"  And  cruel  love,  whose  end  is  scorn, 
Is  this  the  end  to  be  left  alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  die  forlorn!" 

But  sometimes  in  the  falling  day 

An  image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door, 
To  look  into  her  eyes  and  say, 

"  But  thou  shalt  be  alone  no  more." 


92 


MARIA NA  IN  THE  SOUTH.' 


And  flaming  downward  over  all 

From  heat  to  heat  the  day  decreas'd, 
And  slowly  rounded  to  the  east 
The  one  black  shadow  from  the  wall. 

"  The  day  to  night,"  she  made  her  moan, 
"  The  day  to  night,  the  night  to  morn, 
And  day  and  night  I  am  left  alone 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn." 

At  eve  a  dry  cicala  sung, 

There  came  a  sound  as  of  the  sea; 
Backward  the  lattice-blind  she  flung, 

And  lean'd  upon  the  balcony. 
There  all  in  spaces  rosy-bright 

Large  Hesper  glitter'd  on  her  tears, 
And  deepening  thro'  the  silent  spheres, 
Heaven  over  Heaven  rose  the  night. 

And  weeping  then  she  made  her  moan, 

"  The  night  comes  on  that  knows  not  morn, 
When  I  shall  cease  to  be  all  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn." 


E  LEAN  ORE. 


MLEANORE. 


II  Y  dark  eyes  open'd  not,         * 

Nor  first  reveal'd  themselves  to  English  air. 
For  there  is  nothing  here, 
Which,  from  the  outward  to  the  inward  hrought, 
Moulded  thy  baby  thought. 
Fat  off  from  human  neighborhood, 
Thou  wert  horn,  on  a  summer  morn, 
A  mile  beneath  the  cedar-wood. 
Thy  bounteous  forehead  was  not  fann'd 

With  breezes  from  our  oaken  glades, 
But  thou  wert  nurs'd  in  some  delicious  land 

Of  lavish  lights,  and  floating  shades: 
And  flattering  thy  childish  thought 
The  oriental  fairy  brought, 
At  the  moment  of  thy  birth, 
From  old  well-heads  of  haunted  rills, 
And  the  hearts  of  purple  hills, 

And  shadow'd  coves  on  a  sunny  shore, 
The  choicest  wealth  of  all  the  earth, 
Jewel  or  shell,  or  starry  ore, 
To  deck  thy  cradle,  Eleanore. 


Or  the  yellow-banded  bees. 

Thro'  half-open  lattices 

Coming  in  the  scented  breeze, 

Fed  thee,  a  child,  lying  alone, 

With  whitest  honey  in  fairy  gardens  cull'd- 
A  glorious  child,  dreaming   alone, 
In  silk-soft  folds,  upon  yielding  down, 

With  the  hum  of  swarming  bees 

Into  dreamful  slumber  lullM. 


Who  may  minister  to  thee? 

Summer  herself  should  minister 

To  thee,  with  fruitage  golden-rinded 
On  golden  salvers,  or  it   may  be, 
Youngest  Autumn,  in  a  bower 


94  ELRANORE. 


Grape  thicken'd  from  the  light  and  blinded 

With  many  a  deep-hued  bell-like  flower 

Of  fragrant  trailers,  when  the  air 

Sleepeth  over  all  the  heaven, 
And  the  crag  that  fronts  the  Even, 
All  along  the  shadowing  shore, 

Crimsons  over  an  inland  mere, 
Eleanore! 

How  may  full-sail'd  verse  express, 
How  may  measured  words  adore 
The  full-flowing  harmony 
Of  thy  swan-like  stateliness, 
Eleanore? 
The  luxuriant  symmetry 
Of  thy  floating  gracefulness, 
Eleanore  ? 
Every  turn  and  glance  of  thine, 
Every  lineament  divine, 
Eleanore, 
And  the  steady  sunset  glow, 
That  stays  upon  thee  ?     For  in  thee 
Is  nothing  sudden,  nothing  single; 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 
From  one  censer,  in  one  shrine, 
Thought  and  motion  mingle, 
Mingle  ever.     Motions  flow 
To  one  another,  even  as  tho' 
They  were  modulated  so 

To  an  unheard  melody, 
Which  lives  about  thee,  and  a  sweep 

Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 
Drawn  from  each  other,  mellow-deep: 
Who  may  express  thee,  Eleanore? 

I  stand  before  thee,  Eleanore; 

I  see  thy  beauty  gradually  unfold, 
Daily  and  hourly,  more  and  more. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  the  while 

Slowly,  as  from  a  cloud  of  gold, 
Comes  out  thy  deep  ambrosial  smile. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  whene'er 

The  languors  of  thy  love-deep  eyes 
Float  on  to  me.     I  would  I  were 

So  tranc'd,  so  wrapt  in  ecstacies, 


ELEANORS.  95 


To  stand  apart,  and  to  adore, 
Grazing  Oil  thee  forevermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore! 

Sometimes,  with  most    intensity 

Gazing,  I  seem  to  Bee 

Thought  folded  over  thought,  smiling  asleep, 

Slowly  awaken'd,  grow  bo  full  and  deep 

In  thy  large  rye-,  that,  overpowerM  quite, 

1  cannot  veil,  or  droop  my  sight, 

But  am  as  nothing  in  its  light: 

As  tho1  a  star,  in  inmost  heaven  set, 

Ev'n  while  we  gaze  on  it, 

Should  slowly  round  his  orh,  and  slowly  grow 

To  a  full  face,  there  like  a    BUD  remain 

Fix'd — then  as  slowly  fade  again, 

And  draw  itself  to  what  it  was  hefore; 
So  full,  so  deep,  so  slow, 

Thought  seems  to  come  and  go 

In  thy  large  eyes,  imperial  Eleanore. 


As  thunder-clouds  that,  hung  on  high, 

Roofd  the  world  with  doubt  and  fear, 

Floating  thro'  an  evening  atmosphere, 

Grow  golden  all  about  the  sky ; 

In  thee  all  passion  becomes  passionless, 

Touch'd  by  thy  spirit's  mellowness, 

Losin-  his  fire  and  active  might 
In  a  silent  meditation, 

Falling  into  a  still  delight, 

And  luxury  of  contemplation: 


96  ELEANORE. 


As  waves  that  up  a  quiet  cove 
Rolling  slide,  and  lying  still 

Shadow  forth  the  banks  at  will: 
Or  sometimes  they  swell  and  move, 
Pressing  up  against  the  land, 
With  motions  of  the  outer  sea: 
And  the  self-same  influence 
Controlleth  all  the  soul  and  sense 
Of  passion  gazing  upon  thee. 
His  bow-string  slacken'd,  languid  Love, 
Leaning  his  cheek  upon  his  hand, 
Droops  both  his  wings,  regarding  thee, 
And  so  would  languish  evermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore. 

But  when  I  see  thee  roam,  with  tresses  unconfin'd, 
While  the  amorous,  odorous  wind 

Breathes  low  between  the  sunset  and  the  moon; 
Or,  in  a  shadowy  saloon, 
On  silken  cushions  half  reclin'd; 

I  watch  thy  grace ;  and  in  its  place 
My  heart  a  charmed  slumber  keeps, 

While  I  muse  upon  thy  face; 
And  a  languid  fire  creeps 

Thro'  my  veins  to  all  my  frame, 
Dissolvingly  and  slowly:  soon 

From  thy  rose-red  lips  my  name 
Floweth;  and  then,  as  in  a  swoon, 

With  dinning  sound  my  ears  are  rife, 

My  tremulous  tongue  falcereth, 
I  lose  my  color,  I  lose  my  breath, 
I  drink  the  cup  of  a  costly  death, 
Brimm'd  with  delirious  draughts  of  warmest  life. 
I  die  with  my  delight,  before 

I  hear  what  I  would  hear  from  thee; 
Yet  tell  my  name  again  to  me, 
I  would  be  dying  evermore, 
So  dying  ever,  Eleanore. 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


07 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


-e^^T 


-*v 


SEE  the  wealthy  miller  yet, 

His  double  chin,  his  portly  size, 
tAnd  who  that  knew  him  could  forj 

The  busy  wrinkles  round  his  eyes? 
The  slow  wise  smile,  that  round  about 

His  dusty  forehead  dryly  curl'd, 
SeemM  halt-within  and  half-witbout, 

And  full  of  dealings  with  the  world? 


In  yonder  chair  I  see  him  sit, 

Three  fingers  round  the  old  silver  cup — 
his  gray  eyes  twinkle  yet 

At  his  own  jest — gray  eyes  lit  up 
With  summer  lightnings  of  a  soul 

So  full  of  summer  warmth,  so  glad, 
So  healthy,  sound,  and  clear  and  whole, 

His  memory  scarce  can  make  me  sad. 


Yet  fill  my  glass:  give  me  one  kiss: 

My  own  sweet  Alice,  we  must  die; 
There's  somewhat  in  this  world  amiss 

Shall  be  unriddl'd  by  and  by. 
There's  somewhat  flows  to  us  in  life, 

But  more  is  taken  quite  away. 
Pray,  Alice,  pray,  my  darling  wife, 

That  we  may  die  the  self-same  day. 


Have  I  not  found  a  happy  earth  ? 

I  least  should  breathe  a  thought  of  painL 
Would  God  renew  me  from  my  birth 

I'd  almost  live  my  life  again. 
So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk, 

And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine — 
It  seems  in  after-dinner  talk 

Across  the  walnuts  and  the  wine — 


98 


THE  MILLER'S  DA  UGHTER 


To  be  the  long  and  listless  boy 

Late  left  an  orphan  of  the  squire, 
Where  this  old  mansion  mounted  high 

Looks  down  upon  the  village  spire: 
For  even  here,  where  I  and  you 

Have  liv'd  and  lov'd  alone  so  long, 
Each  morn  my  sleep  was  broken  thro' 

By  some  wild  skylark's  matin  song. 


And  oft  I  heard  the  tender  dove 

In  firry  woodlands  making  moan; 
But  ere  I  saw  your  eyes,  my  love, 

I  had  no  motion  of  my  own. 
For  scarce  my  life  with  fancy  play'd 

Before  I  dream'd  that  pleasant  dream—-* 
Still  hither  thither  idly  sway'd 

Like  those  long  mosses  in  the  stream. 

Or  from  the  bridge  I  lean'd  to  hear 

The  milldam  rushing  down  with  noise, 
And  see  the  minnows  eveiywhere 

In  crystal  eddies  glance  and  poise, 
The  tall  flag-flowers  when  they  sprung 

Below  the  range  of  stepping-stones, 
Or  those  three  chestnuts  near,  that  hung 

In  masses  thick  with  milky  cones. 


But,  Alice,  what  an  hour  was  that, 
When  after  roving  in  the  woods 

('Twas  April  then),  I  came  and  sat 
Below  the  chestnuts,  when  their  buds 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER.  99 

Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue; 

And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 
I  cast  me  down,  nor  thought  of  you, 

But  angled  in  the  higher  pool. 

A  love-song  I  had  somewhere  read, 

An  echo  from  a  measured  strain, 
Beat  time  to  nothing  in  my  head 

From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain. 
It  haunted  me,  the  morning  long, 

With  weary  sameness  in  the  rhymes, 
The  phantom  of  a  silent  song, 

That  went  and  came  a  thousand  times. 

Then  leapt  a  trout.     In  lazy  mood 

I  watch'd  the  little  circles  die; 
They  past  into  the  level  flood, 

And  there  a  vision  caught  my  eye; 
The  reflex  of  a  beauteous  form, 

A  glowing  arm,  a  gleaming  neck, 
As  when  a  sunbeam  wavers  warm 

Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck. 

For  you  remember,  you  had  set, 

That  morning,  on  the  casement's  edge 
A  long  green  box  of  mignonette, 

And  you  were  leaning  from  the  ledge, 
And  when  I  rais'd  my  eyes,  above 

They  met  with  two  so  full  and  bright — 
Such  eyes!  I  swear  to  you,  my  love, 

That  these  have  never  lost  their  light. 

I  lov'd,  and  love  dispell'd  the  fear 

That  I  should  die  an  early  death; 
For  love  possess'd  the  atmosphere, 

And  fillVl  the  breast  with  purer  breath. 
My  mother  thought,  What  ails  the  boy? 

For  I  was  alter'd,  and  began 
To  move  about  the  house  with  joy, 

And  with  the  certain  step  of  man. 

I  lov'd  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 
Thro'  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill, 
The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam, 


DO  THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER.  * 

The  pooi  beneath  it  never  still, 
The  meal-sacks  on  the  whiten'd  floor, 

The  dark  round  of  the  dripping  wheel, 
The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold, 

When  April  nights  began  to  blow, 
And  April's  crescent  glimmer'd  cold, 

I  saw  the  village  lights  below ; 
I  knew  your  taper  far  away, 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hope, 
From  off  the  wold  1  came,  and  lay 

Upon  the  freshly-flower'd  slope. 

The  deep  brook  groan'd  beneath  the  mill* 

And  "by  that  lamp,"  I  thought,  "she  sits!" 
The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill 

Gleam'd  to  the  flying  moon  by  fits. 
*'  O  that  I  were  beside  her  now ! 

O  will  she  answer  if  I  call? 
O  would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow, 

Sweet  Alice,  if  I  told  her  all?" 

Sometimes  I  saw  you  sit  and  spin; 

And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind, 
Sometimes  I  heard  you  sing  within; 

Sometimes  your  shadow  cross'd  the  blind. 
At  last  you  rose  and  mov'd  the  light, 

And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chair 
Flitted  across  into  the  night, 

And  all  the  casement  darken'd  there. 

But  when  at  last  I  dar'd  to  speak, 

The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white  with  May, 
Your  ripe  lips  mov'd  not,  but  your  cheek 

Flush'd  like  the  coining  of  the  day; 
And  so  it  was — half-sly,  half-shy, 

You  would,  and  would  not,  little  one  I 
Although  I  pleaded  tenderly, 

And  you  and  I  were  all  alone. 


THE  MILLERS  DAUGHTER.  101 

And  slowly  was  m}'  mother  brought 

To  yield  consent  to  my  desire : 
She  wish'd  me  happy,  but  she  thought 

I  might  have  lookM  a  little  higher; 
And  I  was  young — too  young  to  wed: 

"  Yet  must  I  love  her  for  your  sake; 
Go  fetch  your  Alice  here,"  she  said: 

Her  eyelid  quiver'd  as  she  spake. 

And  down  1  went  to  fetch  my  bride: 

But,  Alice,  you  were  ill  at  case; 
This  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tried, 

Too  fearful  that  you  should  not  please. 
1  lov'd  you  better  for  your  fears, 

I  knew  you  could  not  look  but  well; 
And  dews,  that  would  have  falfn  in  tears, 

I  kiss'd  away  before  they  fell. 

1  watch'd  the  little  flutterings, 

The  doubt  my  mother  would  not  see, 
She  spoke  at  large  of  many  things, 

And  at  the  last  she  spoke  of  me; 
And  turning  look'd  upon  your  face 

As  near  this  door  you  sat  apart, 
And  rose,  and,  with  a  silent  grace 

Approaching,  press'd  you  heart  tc  heart 

Ah,  well — but  sing  the  foolish  song 

I  gave  you,  Alice,  on  the  day 
When,  arm  in  arm,  we  went  along, 

A  pensive  pair,  and  you  were  gay 
With  bridal  flowers — that  I  may  seem, 

As  in  the  nights  of  old,  to  lie 
Beside  the  mill-wheel  in  the  stream, 

While  those  full  chestnuts  whisper  by. 


It  Is  the  miller's  daughter, 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 
That  I  would  be  the  jewel 

That  trembles  at  her  ear : 
For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 
I'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 


102  THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


And  I  would  be  the  girdle 

About  her  dainty,  dainty  waist, 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me, 
In  sorrow  and  in  rest: 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace, 
And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 
With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs, 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasp'd  at  night. 

A  trifle,  sweet!  which  true  love  spells — 

True  love  interprets — right  alone. 
His  light  upon  the  letter  dwells, 

For  all  the  spirit  is  his  own. 
So,  if  I  waste  words  now,  in  truth, 

You  must  blame  Love.     His  early  rage 
Had  force  to  make  me  rhyme  in  youth, 

And  makes  me  talk  too  much  in  age. 

And  now  those  vivid  hours  are  gone, 

Like  mine  own  life  to  me  thou  art, 
Where  Past  and  Present,  wound  in  one, 

Do  make  a  garland  for  the  heart: 
So  sing  that  other  song  I  made, 

Half-anger'd  with  my  happy  lot, 
The  day,  when  in  the  chestnut  shade 

I  found  the  blue  Forget-me-not. 


Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net, 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget? 
Many  suns  arise  and  set. 
Many  a  chance  the  years  beget. 
Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 
Even  so. 

Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret. 
Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 
Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 
What  is  love?  for  we  forget: 
Ah,  no !  no ! 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER.  103 

Look  thro'  mine  eyes  with  thine.     True  wife, 

Round  my  true  heart  thine  arms  entwine; 
My  other  dearer  life  in  life, 

Look  thro'  my  very  soul  with  thine! 
Untouch'd  with  any  shade  of  years, 

May  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell! 
They  have  not  shed  a  many  tears, 

Dear  eyes,  since  first  I  knew  them  well. 

Yet  tears  they  shed :  they  had  their  part 

Of  sorrow:  for  when  time  was  ripe, 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type, 
That  into  stillness  past  again, 

And  left  a  want  unknown  before; 
Although  the  loss  that  brought  us  pain, 

That  loss  but  made  us  love  the  more, 

With  farther  lookings  on.     The  kiss, 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss, 

The  comfort,  I  have  found  in  thee: 
But  that  God  bless  thee,  dear — who  wrought 

Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind — 
With  blessings  beyond  hope  or  thought, 

With  blessings  which  no  words  can  find. 

Arise,  and  let  us  wander  forth, 

To  yon  old  mill  across  the  wolds; 
For  look,  the  sunset,  south  and  north, 

Winds  all  the  vale  in  rosy  folds. 
And  fires  your  narrow  casement  glass, 

Touching  the  sullen  pool  below: 
On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  grass 

Is  dry  and  dewless.     Let  us  go. 


104  FA  TIM, 


FATIMA. 

[IT LOVE,  Love,  Love!     O  withering  might! 
O  sun,  that  from  thy  noonday  height 
Shudderest  when  I  strain  my  sight, 
Throbbing  thro'  all  thy  heat  and  light, 
Lo,  falling  from  my  constant  mind,- 
Lo,  parch'd  and  wither'd,  deaf  and  blind, 
I  whirl  like  leaves  in  roaring  wind. 

Last  night  I  wasted  hateful  hours 
Below  the  city's  eastern  towers: 
I  thirsted  for  the  brooks,  the  showers: 
I  roll'd  among  the  tender  flowers: 

I  crush'd  them  on  my  breast,  my  mouth; 

I  look'd  athwart  the  burning  drouth 

Of  that  long  desert  to  the  south. 

Last  night,  when  some  one  spoke  his  name, 

From  my  swift  blood  that  went  and  came 

A  thousand  little  shafts  of  flame 

Were  shiver'd  in  my  narrow  frame. 
O  Love,  O  fire!  once  he  drew 
With  one  long  kiss  my  whole  soul  thro' 
My  lips,  as  sunlight  drinketh  dew. 

Before  he  mounts  the  hill,  I  know 

He  cometh  quickly :  from  below 

Sweet  gales,  as  from  deep  gardens,  blow 

Before  him,  striking  on  my  brow. 
In  my  dry  brain  my  spirit  soon, 
Down-deepening  from  swoon  to  swoon, 
Faints  like  a  dazzl'd  morning  moon. 

The  wind  sounds  like  a  silver  wire, 

And  from  beyond  the  noon  a  fire 

Is  pour'd  upon  the  hills,  and  nigher 

The  skies  stoop  down  in  their  desire ; 
And,  isl'd  in  sudden  seas  of  light, 
My  heart,  pierc'd  thro'  with  fierce  delight, 
Bursts  into  blossom  in  his  sight, 


CENONE. 


105 


My  whole  soul  waiting  silently, 

All  naked  in  a  sultry  sky, 

Droops  blinded  with  his  shining  eye: 

I  will  possess  him  or  will  die. 

I  will  grow  round  him  in  his  place, 
Grow,  live,  die  looking  on  his  face, 
Die,  dying  clasp'd  in  his  embrace. 


^^^>    «M  ~irs-»  ^«— C^ 


CENONE. 


HERE  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 
Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 
The  swimming  vapor  slopes  athwart  the  glen, 
Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from  pine  to  pine, 
And  loiters,  slowly  drawn.    On  either  hand 
The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  midway  down 
Hang  rich  in  flowers,  and  far  below  them  roars 
The  long  brook  falling  thro'  the  clov'n  ravine 
In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 
Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus 
Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning:  but  in  front 
The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 
Troas  and  Ilion's  column'd  citadel, 
The  crown  of  Troa^. 

Hither  came  at  noon 
Mournful  CEnone,  wandering  forlorn 
Of  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  the  hills. 
Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round  her  neck 
Floated  her  hair  or  seem'd  to  float  in  rest. 
She,  leaning  on  a  fragment  twin'd  with  vine, 
Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  the  mountain-shade 
SlopVl  downward  to  her  seat  from  the  upper  cliff". 


"O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
For  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the  hill 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass: 
The  lizard,  with  his  shadow  on  the  stone, 
Rests  like  a  shadow,  and  the  cicala  sleeps. 


106 


CENONE. 


The  purple  flowers  droop:  the  golden  bee 
Is  lily-cradl'd :  I  alone  awake. 
My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  love, 
My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes  are  dim, 
And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 


H***-f  <?(,,„,     , 


"  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Hear  me  O  earth,  hear  me  O  hills,  O  caves 
That  house  the  cold  crown'd  snake !   O  mountain  brooks, 
I  am  the  daughter  of  a  river-god, 
Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak,  and  build  up  all 
My  sorrow  with  my  song,  as  yonder  walls 
Rose  slowly  to  a  music  slowly  breath'd, 
A  cloud  that  gather'd  shape:  for  it  may  be 
That,  while  I  speak  of  it,  a  little  while 
My  heart  may  wander  from  its  deeper  woe. 


CBNONB.  107 

"  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
I  waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills, 
Aloft  the  mountain  lawn  was  dewy-dark, 
And  dewy-dark  aloft  the  mountain  pine: 
Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Pari-, 
Leading  a  jet-black  goat  white-horn 'd,  white-hoov'd, 
Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 

"  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Far-off  the  torrent  call'd  me  from  the  cleft: 
Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 
The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.     With  down-dropt  eyes 
I  -at  alone:  white-breasted  like  a  star 
Fronting  the  dawn  he  mov'd;  a  leopard  skin 
Dropp'd  from  his  shoulder,  but  his  sunny  hair 
Cluster'd  about  his  temples  like  a  God's; 
And  his  cheek  brighten'd  as  the  foam-bow  brightens 
When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and  all  my  heart 
Went  forth  to  embrace  him  coming  ere  he  came. 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
He  smil'd,  and  opening  out* his  milk-white  palm 
Disclos'd  a  fruit  of  pure  Hesperian  gold, 
That  smelt  ambrosially,  and  while  I  look'd 
And  listen'd,  the  full-flowing  river  of  speech 
Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

"  '  My  own  CEnone, 
Beautiful-brow'd  CEnone,  my  own  soul, 
Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind  engrav'n 
"  For  the  most  fair,"  would  seem  to  award  it  thine, 
As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread  haunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 
Of  movement,  and  the  charm  of  married  brows.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to  mine, 
And  added,  *  This  was  cast  upon  the  board, 
When  all  the  full-fac'd  presence  of  the  Gods 
Rang'd  in  the  halls  of  Peleus;  whereupon 
Rose  feud,  with  question  unto  whom  'twere  due: 
But  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  yester-eve, 
Delivering  that  to  me,  by  common  voice 
Elected  umpire.     Her6  comes  to-day, 


108  CENONE. 


Pallas  and  Aphrodite,  claiming  each 
This  meed  of  fairest.     Thou,  within  the  cave 
Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest  pine, 
Mayst  well  behold  them  unbeheld,  unheard 
Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of  Gods.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
It  was  the  deep  midnoon:  one  silvery  cloud 
Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piny  sides 
Of  this  long  glen.      Then  to  the  bower  they  came. 
Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth-swarded  bower, 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like  fire, 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel, 
Lotos  and  lilies:  and  a  wind  arose, 
And  overhead  the  wandering  ivy  and  vine, 
This  way  and  that,  in  many  a  wild  festoon 
Ran  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled  boughs 
With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro'  and  thro'. 

"  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree-tops  a  crested  peacock  lit, 
And  o'er  him  flow'd  a  golden  cloud,  and  lean'd 
Upon  him,  slowly  dropping  fragrant  dew. 
Then  first  I  heard  the  voice  of  her,  to  whom 
Coming  thro'  Heaven,  like  a  light  that  grows 
Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the  Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.     She  to  Paris  made 
Proffer  of  royal  rjower,  ample  rule 
Unquestion'd,  overflowing  revenue 
Wherewith  to  embellish  state,  4  from  many  a  vale 
And  river-sunder'd  champaign  cloth'd  with  corn, 
Or  labor'd  mines  und  rain  able  of  ore. 
Honor,'  she  said,  '  and  homage,  tax  and  toll, 
From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven  large, 
Mast-throng'd  beneath  her  shadowing1  citadel 
In  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest  towers.' 

"  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake  of  power, 
*  Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all; 
Power  fitted  to  the  season ;  wisdom  bred 
And  throned  of  wisdom — from  all  neighboring  crowns 
Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hand 
Fail  from  the  sceptre-staff.     Such  boon  from  me, 


CENONE.  109 


Prom  me,  Heaven's  Queen,  Paris,  to  thee  king-bom, 

A  shepherd  all  thy  life  but  yet  king-born, 
Should  come  most  welcome,  seeing  men,  in  power 
Only,  are  likest  gods,  who  have  att:iin\l 
Rest  in  a  happy  place  and  quiet  seats 
Above  the  thunder,  with  undying  bliss, 
In  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy.' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 

She  ceasM,  and  Paris  held  the  costly  fruit 
Out  at  arm's  length,  so  much  the  thought  of  power 
Flatu-r\l  his  spirit;  but  Pallas  where  she  stood 
Somewhat  apart,  her  clear  and  bared  limbs 
O'erthwarted  with  the  brazen-headed  spear 
Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold, 
The  while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest  eye 
( )ver  her  snow-cold  breast  and  angry  cheek 
Kept  watch,  waiting  decision,  made  reply. 

"'  Self-reverence,  self-knowledge,  self-control, 
These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign  power. 

Yet  nut  for  power  (power  of  herself 
Would  come  uncall'd  for),  but  to  live  by  law, 
Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear; 
And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow  right 
Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  consequence.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Again  she  said:  'I  woo  thee  not  with  git!-. 
Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me 
To  fairer.     Judge  thou  me  by  what  I  am, 
So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed, 
If  gazing  on  divinity  disrob'd 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of  fair, 
Unbiass'd  by  self-prorlt,  obi  rest  thee  sure 

That  I  should  love  thee  well  and  cleave  to  thee, 
So  that  my  vigor,  wedded  to  thy  blood, 
Shall  strike  within  thy  pulse,  like-  a  Grod's, 
To  push  thee  forward  thro1  a  life  of  shocks, 
Dangers,  and  deed-,  until  endurance  grow 
Sinew'd  with  action,  and  the  full-grown  will, 
Circled  thro'  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Commeasure  perfect  freedom.' 


110  (EN  ONE. 


"  Here  she  ceas'd, 
And  Paris  ponder'd,  and  I  cried,  «  O  Paris, 
Give  it  to  Pallas! '  but  he  heard  me  not, 
Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe  is  me! 

"  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful, 

Fresh  as  the  foam,  new-bath'd  in  Paphian  wells, 
With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward  drew 
From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her  deep  hair 
Ambrosial,  golden  round  her  lucid  throat 
And  shoulder:  from  the  violets  her  light  foot 
Shone  rosy-white,  and  o'er  her  rounded  form 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine  bunches 
Floated  the  glowing  sunlights,  as  she  mov'd. 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
She  with  a  subtle  smile  in  her  mild  eyes, 
The  herald  of  her  triumph,  drawing  nigh 
Half-whisper'd  in  his  ear,  *  I  promise  thee 
The  fairest  and  most  .loving  wife  in  Greece.' 
She  spoke  and  laugh'd :   I  shut  my  sight  for  fear.' 
But  when  I  look'd,  Paris  had  rais'd  his  arm, 
And  I  beheld  great  Here's  angry  eyes, 
As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud, 
And  I  was  left  alone  within  the  bower: 
And  from  that  time  to  this  I  am  alone, 
And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die. 

"  Yet,  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Fairest — why  fairest  wife?     Am  I  not  fair? 
My  love  hath  told  me  so  a  thousand  times. 
Methinks  I  must  be  fair,  for  yesterday, 
When  I  pass'd  by,  a  wild  and  wanton  pard, 
Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  with  playful  tail 
Crouch'd  fawning  in  the  weed.     Most  loving  is  she? 
Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that  my  arms 
Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot  lips  prest 
Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick-falling  dew 
Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  Autumn  rains 
Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois. 


CENONE.  Ill 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
They  came,  they  cut  away  my  tallest  pines, 
My  dark  tali  pines,  that  plum'd  the  craggy  ledge 
High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  between 
The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cataract 
Foster'd  the  callow  eaglet— from  beneath 
Whose  thick  mysterious  bows  in  the  dark  morn 
The  panther's  roar  came  mufiTd,  while  I  sat 
Low  in  the  valley.     Never,  never  more 
Shall  lone  CEnone  see  the  morning  mist 
Sweep  thro'  them ;  never  see  them  overlaid 
With  narrow  moon-lit  slips  of  silver  cloud, 
Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  trembling  stars. 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruin'd  folds, 
Among  the  fragments  tumbl'd  from  the  glens, 
Or  the  dry  thickets,  I  could  meet  with  her, 
The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came 
Into  the  fair  Peleian  banquet-hall, 
And  cast  the  golden  fruit  upon  the  board, 
And  bred  this  change;  that  I  might  speak  my  mind, 
And  tell  her  to  her  face  how  much  I  hate 
Her  presence,  hated  both  of  Gods  and  men. 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hath  he  not  sworn  his  love  a  thousand  times; 
In  this  green  valley,  under  this  green  hill, 
Ev'n  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on  this  stone  ? 
SealVl  it  with  kisses?  water'd  it  with  tears? 
O  happy  tears,  and  how  unlike  to  these! 
O  happy  Heaven,  how  canst  thou  see  my  face? 
O  happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear  my  weight? 

0  death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-floating  cloud, 
There  are  enough  unhappy  on  this  earth, 
Pass  by  the  happy  souls,  that  love  to  live: 

1  pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of  life, 
And  shadow  all  my  soul,  that  I  may  die. 
Thou  weighest  heavy  on  the  heart  within, 
Weigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids:  let  me  die. 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  will  not  die  alone,  for  fiery  thoughts 
Do  shape  themselves  within  me,  more  and  more, 


112 


CENONE. 


Whereof  I  catch  the  issue,  as  I  hear 
Dead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the  inmost  hills, 
Like  footsteps  upon  wool.     I  dimly  see 
My  far-off  doubtful  purpose,  as  a  mother 
Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her  child 
Ere  it  is  born:  a  cjiild! — a  shudder  comes 
Across  me :  never  child  be  borne  of  me, 
Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father's  eyes ! 

"O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hear  me,  O  earth.     I  will  not  die  alone, 
Lest  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come  to  me 
Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of  Death 
Uncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 
With  the  Greek  woman.     I  will  rise  and  go 
Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars  come  forth 
Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  she  says 
A  fire  dances  before  her,  and  a  sound 
Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men. 
What  this  may  be  I  know  not,  but  I  know 
That,  wheresoe'er  I  am  by  night  and  day, 
All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning  fire. 


"  Then  to  the  bower  they  came. 
Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth-swarded  bower, 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like  fire." 

Seepage  10S. 


THE  SISTERS. 


113 


THE  SISTERS. 


E  were  two  daughters  of  one  race: 
She  was  the  fairest  in  the  face: 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree. 
They  were  together,  and  she  fell; 
Therefore  revenge  became  me  well; 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see! 


She  died:  she  went  to  burning  flame: 
She  mix'd  her  ancient  blood  with  shame. 

The  wind  is  howling  in  turret  and  tree. 
Whole  weeks  and  months,  and  early  and  late. 
To  win  his  love  I  lay  in  wait: 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see! 

I  made  a  feast;  I  bade  him  come; 
I  won  his  love,  I  brought  him  home. 

The  wind  is  roaring  in  turret  and  tree. 
And  after  supper,  on  a  bed, 
Upon  my  lap  he  laid  his  head: 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see! 


I  kiss'd  his  eyelids  into  rest: 

His  ruddy  cheek  upon  my  breast. 

The  wind  is  raging  in  turret  and  tree. 
I  hated  him  with  the  hate  of  hell, 
But  I  lovM  his  beauty  passing  well. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 


I  rose  up  in  the  silent  night: 

I  made  my  dagger  sharp  and  bright, 

The  wind  is  raving  in  turret  and  tree. 
As  half-asleep  his  breath  he  drew, 
Three  times  I  stabb'd  him  thro'  and  thro'. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see! 


114 


TO 


I  curi'd  and  comb'd  his  comely  head, 
He  looked  so  grand  when  he  was  dead. 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree. 
I  wrapt  his  body  in  the  sheet, 
And  laid  him  at  his  mother's  feet 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see! 


TO 


WITH    THE    FOLLOWING    POEM. 


send  you  here  a  sort  of  allegory, 

(For  you  will  understand  it)  of  a  soul, 

A  sinful  soul  possess'd  of  many  gifts, 
A  spacious  garden  full  of  flowering  weeds, 
A  glorious  Devil,  large  in  heart  and  brain, 
That  did  love  Beauty,  only  (Beauty  seen 
In  all  varieties  of  mould  and  mind,) 
And  Knowledge  for  its  Beauty;  or  if  Good, 
Good  only  for  its  beauty,  seeing  not 
That  Beauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge  are  three  sisters 
That  dote  upon  each  other,  friends  to  man, 
Living  together  under  the  same  roof, 
And  never  can  be  sunder'd  without  tears, 
And  he  that  shuts  Love  out,  in  turn  shall  be 
Shut  out  from  Love,  and  on  her  threshold  lie 
Howling  in  outer  darkness.     Not  for  this 
Was  common  clay  ta'en  from  the  common  earth, 
Moulded  b}r  God,  and  temper'd  with  the  tears 
Of  angels  to  the  perfect  shape  of  man. 


£2^ix_».«j 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


115 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


BUILT  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house, 

Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell. 
I  said,  "  O  Soul,  make  merry  and  carouse, 
Dear  Soul,  for  all  is  well." 

A  huge  crag-platform,  smooth  as  burnish'd  brass, 

I  chose.     The  ranged  ramparts  bright 
From  level  meadow-bases  of  deep  grass 
Suddenly  scal'd  the  light. 


Thereon  I  built  it  firm.     Of  ledge  or  shelf 

The  rock  rose  clear,  or  winding  stair. 
My  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 
In  her  high  palace  there. 

And  "  while  the  world  runs  round  and  round,"  I  said, 
"  Reign  thou  apart,  a  quiet  king, 
Still  as,  while  Saturn  whirls,  his  steadfast  shade 
Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring." 


To  which  my  soul  made  answer  readily: 

"  Trust  me,  in  bliss  1  shall  abide 
In  this  great  mansion,  that  is  built  for  me, 
So  royal-rich  and  wide." 


Four  courts  I  made,  East,  West  and  South  and  North, 

In  each  a  squared  lawn,  wherefrom 
The  golden  gorge  of  dragons  spouted  forth 
A  flood  of  fountain-foam. 


116  THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


And  round  the  cool  green  courts  there  ran  a  row 

Of  cloisters,  branch'd  like  mighty  woods, 
Echoing  all  night  to  that  sonorous  flow 
Of  spouted  fountain-floods. 

And  round  the  roofs  a  gilded  gallery 

That  lent  broad  verge  to  distant  lands, 
Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where  the  sky 
Dipt  down  to  sea  and  sands. 

From  those  four  jets  four  currents  in  one  swell 

Across  the  mountain  stream'd  below 
In  misty  folds,  that  floating  as  they  fell 
Lit  up  a  torrent-bow. 

And  high  on  every  peak  a  statue  seem'd 

To  hang  on  tiptoe,  tossing  up 
A  cloud  of  incense  of  all  odor  steam'd 
From  out  a  golden  cup. 

So  that  she  thought,  "  And  who  shall  gaze  upon 

My  palace  with  unblinded  eyes, 
While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the  sun, 
And  that  sweet  incense  rise?  " 

For  that  sweet  incense  rose  and  never  fail'd, 
And,  while  day  sank  or  mounted  higher, 
The  light  aerial  gallery,  golden  rail'd, 
Burnt  like  a  fringe  of  fire. 

Likewise  the  deep-set  windows,  stain'd  and  trac'd, 

Would  seem  slow-flaming  crimson  fires 
From  shadow'd  grots  of  arches  interlac'd, 
And  tipt  with  frost-like  spires. 


Full  of  long-sounding  corridors  it  was, 

That  qver- vaulted  grateful  gloom, 
Thro'  which  the  livelong  day  my  soul  did  pass, 
Well-pleas'd,  from  room  to  room. 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


117 


Full  of  great  rooms  and  small  the  palace  stood, 

All  various,  each  a  perfect  whole 
From  living  Nature,  fit  for  every  mood 
And  change  of  my  still  soul. 

For  some  were  hung  with  arras  green  and  blue, 

Showing  a  gaudy  summer-morn, 
Where  with  puff'd  cheek  the  belted  hunter  blew 
His  wreathed  bugle  horn. 

One  seem'd  all  dark  and  red, — a  tract  of  sand, 

And  some  one  pacing  there  alone, 
Who  pac'd  forever  in  a  glimmering  land, 
Lit  with  a  low  large  moon. 


One  show'd  an  iron  coast  and  angry  waves. 

You  seemM  to  hear  them  climb  and  fall 
And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellowing  caves, 
Beneath  the  windy  wall. 


118  THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


And  one,  a  full-fed  river  winding  slow 

By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain, 
The  ragged  rims  of  thunder  brooding  low, 
With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 


And  one,  the  reapers  at  their  sultry  toil, 

In  fronc  they  bound  the  sheaves.     Behind 
Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in  oil, 
And  hoary  to  the  wind. 

And  one,  a  foreground  black  with  stones  and  slags, 

Beyond  a  line  of  heights,  and  higher 
All  barr'd  with  long  white  cloud  the  scornful  crags, 
And  highest,  snow  and  fire. 

And  one,  an  English  home, — gray  twilight  pour'd 

On  dewey  pastures,  dewey  trees, 
Softer  than  sleep, — all  things  in  order  stored, 
A  haunt  of  ancient  Peace. 

Nor  these  alone,  but  every  landscape  fair, 

As  fit  for  every  mood  of  mind, 
Or  gay,  or  grave,  or  sweet,  or  stern,  was  there, 
Not  less  than  truth  design'd. 


Or  the  maid-mother  by  a  crucifix, 

In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny-warm, 
Beneath  branch-work  of  costly  sardonyx 
Sat  smiling,  babe  in  arm. 


Or  in  a  clear-wall'd  city  on  the  sea, 
Near  gilded  organ-pipes,  her  hair 
Wound  with'white  roses,  slept  St.  Cecily; 
An  angel  looked  at  her. 


Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise, 

A  group  of  Houris  bow'd  to  see 
The  dying  Islamite,  with  hands  and  eyes 
That  said, «  We  wait  for  thee.' 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


119 


Or  mythic  Uther's  deeply-wounded  son 
In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 
Lay,  dozing  in  the  vale  of  Avalon, 
And  watch'd  by  weeping  queens. 

Or  hollowing  one  hand  'gainst  his  ear, 

To  list  a  foot-fall,  ere  he  saw 
The  wood-nymph,  stay'd  the  Ausonian  king  to  hear 
Of  wisdom  and  of  law. 

Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrail'd, 

And  many  a  tract  of  palm  and  rice, 
The  throne  of  Indian  Cama  slowly  sail'd 
A  summer  fannM  with  spice. 


Or  sweet  Europa's  mantle  blew  unclasp'd, 
From  off  her  shoulder  backward  borne: 
From  one  hand  droop'd  a  crocus:  one  hand  grasp'd 
The  mild  bull's  golden  horn. 


120  THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


Or  else  flush'd  Ganymede,  his  rosy  thigh 

Half-buried  in  the  eagle's  down, 
Sole  as  a  flying  star  shot  thro'  the  sky 
Above  the  pillar'd  town. 

Nor  these  alone:  but  every  legend  fair 
Which  the  supreme  Caucasian  mind 
Carv'd  out  of  Nature  for  itself,  was  there, 
Not  less  than  life,  design'd. 


Then  in  the  towers  I  plac'd  great  bells  that  swung, 

Mov'd  of  themselves,  with  silver  sound: 
And  with  choice  paintings  of  wise  men  I  hung 
The  royal  dais  round. 

For  there  was  Milton  like  a  seraph  strong, 
Beside  him  Shakespeare  bland  and  mild; 
And  there  the  world-worn  Dante  grasp'd  his  song, 
And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And  there  the  Ionian  father  of  the  rest; 

A  million  wrinkles  carv'd  his  skin; 
A  hundred  winters  snow'd  upon  his  breast, 
From  cheek  and  throat  and  chin.        _J 

Above,  the  fair  hall- ceiling  stately-set 

Many  an  arch  high  up  did  lift, 
And  angels  rising  and  descending  met 
With  interchange  of  gift. 

Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  plann'd 

With  cycles  of  the  human  tale 
Of  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  every  land 
So  wrought,  they  will  not  fail. 

The  people  here,  a  beast  of  burden  slow, 

Toil'd  onward,  prick'd  with  goads  and  stings: 
Here  play'd  a  tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
The  heads  and  crowns  of  kings; 


And  one,  the  reapers  at  their  6ultry  toil." 

Seefage  118. 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART.  121 


Here  rose  an  athlete,  strong  to  break  or  bind 

All  force  in  bonds  that  might  endure, 
And  here  once  more  like  some  sick  man  declin'd, 
And  trusted  any  cure. 

But  over  these  she  trod :  and  those  great  bells 

Began  to  chime.     She  took  her  throne: 
She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  Oriels, 
To  sing  her  songs  alone. 

And  thro'  the  topmost  Oriels'  color'd  flame 

Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below; 
Plato  the  wise,  and  large-brow'd  Verulam, 
The  first  of  those  who  know. 


And  all  those  names,  that  in  their  motion  were 

Full-welling  fountain-heads  of  change, 
Betwixt  the  slender  shafts  were  blazon'd  fair 
In  diverse  raiment  strange: 

Thro'  which  the  lights,  rose,  amber,  emerald,  blue, 

Flush'd  in  her  templfs  and  her  eyes, 
And  from  her  lips,  as  morn  trom  Memnon,  drew 
Rivers  of  melodies. 

No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 

Her  low  preamble  all  alone, 
More  than  my  soul  to  hear  her  echo'd  song 
Throb  thro'  the  ribbed  stone; 

Singing  and  murmuring  in  her  feastful  mirth, 

Joying  to  feel  herself  alive, 
Lord  over  nature,  lord  of  the  visible  earth, 
Lord  of  the  senses  five; 

Communing  with  herself:  "  All  these  are  mine, 

And  let  the  world  have  peace  or  wars 
'Tis  one  to  me."     She — when  young  night  divine 
Crown'd  dying  day  with  stars, 

Making  sweet  close  of  his  delicious  toils — 
Lit  light  in  wreaths  and  anadems, 


122  THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


And  pure  quintessences  of  precious  oils 
In  hollow'd  moons  of  gems, 

To  mimic  heaven;  and  clapt  her  hands  and  cried: 

"  I  marvel  if  my  still  delight 
In  this  great  house  so  royal-rich,  and  wide, 
Be  flatter'd  to  the  height. 

"  O  all  things  fair  to  sate  my  various  eyes! 
♦    O  shapes  and  hues  that  please  me  well! 
O  silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 
My  Gods,  with  whom  I  dwell! 

"  O  God-like  isolation  which  art  mine, 

I  can  but  count  thee  perfect  gain, 
What  time  I  watch  the  dark'ning  droves  of  swine 
That  range  on  yonder  plain. 

"  In  filthy  sloughs  they  roll  a  prurient  skin, 

They  graze  and  wallow,  breed  and  sleep; 
And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in, 
And  drives  them  to  the  deep." 

Then  of  the  moral  instinct  would  she  prate, 

And  of  the  rising  from  the  dead, 
As  hers  by  right  of  full-accomplish'd  Fate ; 
And  at  the  last  she  said: 


*«  I  take  possession  of  man's  mind  and  deed, 

I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl. 
I  sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 
But  contemplating  all." 


Full  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 

Flash'd  thro'  her  as  she  sat  alone, 
Yet  not  the  less  she  held  her  solemn  mirth, 
And  intellectual  throne. 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART.  123 


And  so  she  throve  and  prosper'd:  so  three  years 

She  prosper'd:  on  the  fourth  she  fell, 
Like  Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in  his  ears, 
Struck  thro'  with  pangs  of  hell. 

Lest  she  should  fall  and  perish  utterly, 

God,  before  whom  ever  lie  bare 
The  abysmal  deeps  of  Personality, 
Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 

When  she  would  think,  where'er  she  turn'd  her  sight, 

The  airy  hand  confusion  wrought, 

Wrote  "Mene,  mene,"  and  divided  quite 

The  kingdom  of  her  thought. 

Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  solitude 
Fell  on  her,  from  which  mood  was  born 

Scorn  of  herself;  again,  from  out  that  mood 
Laughter  at  her  self-scorn. 

"What!  is  not  this  my  place  of  strength,"  she  said, 

"  My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me, 
Whereof  the  strong  foundation-stones  were  laid 
Since  my  first  memory?" 

But  in  dark  corners  of  her  palace  stood 

Uncertain  shapes;  and  unawares 
On  white-eyed  phantasms  weeping  tears  of  blood, 

And  horrible  nightmares, 

And  hollow  shades  enclosing  hearts  of  flame, 

And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all, 
On  corpses  three  months  old,  at  noon  she  came, 
That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A  spot  of  dull  stagnation,  without  light 

Or  power  of  movement,  seem'd  my  soul, 
'Mid  onward-sloping  motions  infinite 
Making  for  one  sure  goal. 

A  still  salt  pool,  lock'd  in  with  bars  of  sand; 
Left  on  the  shore;  that  hears  all  night 


124  THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 

The  plunging  seas  draw  backward  from  the  land 
Their  moon-led  waters  white. 

A  star  that  with  the  choral  starry  dance 

Join'd  not,  but  stood,  and  standing  saw 
The  hollow  orb  of  moving  Circumstance 
Roll'd  round  by  one  fix'd  law. 

Back  on  herself  her  serpent  pride  had  curled. 

"  No  voice,"  she  shriek'd  in  that  lone  hall, 
"No  voice  breaks  thro'  the  stillness  of  this  world: 
One  deep,  deep  silence  all!" 

She,  mould'ring  with  the  dull  earth's  mould'ring  sod, 

Inwrapt  tenfold  in  slothful  shame, 
Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 
Lost  to  her  place  and  name; 

And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally, 

And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair, 
But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eternity, 
No  comfort  anywhere; 

Remaining  utterly  confus'd  with  fears, 
And  ever  worse  with  growing  time, 
And  ever  unreliev'd  by  dismal  tears, 
And  all  alone  in  crime: 

Shut  up  as  in  a  crumbling  tomb,  girt  round 

With  blackness  as  a  solid  wall, 
Far  off  she  seem'd  to  hear  the  dully  sound 
Of  human  footsteps  fall. 

As  in  strange  lands  a  traveller  walking  slow, 

In  doubt  and  great  perplexity, 
A  little  before  moon-rise  hears  the  low 
Moan  of  an  unknown  sea. 

And  knows  not  if  it  be  thunder  or  a  sound 
Of  rocks  thrown  down,  or  one  deep  cry 
Of  great  wild  beasts ;  then  thinketh,  "  I  have  found 
A  new  land,  but  I  die." 


LADT  CLARA    VERB  DE   IV  7.7 •/. 


125 


She  howl'd  aloud,  "  I  am  on  fire  within. 

There  comes  no  murmur  of  reply. 
What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin, 
And  save  me  lest  I  die? " 


So  when  four  years  were  wholly  finished, 

She  threw  her  royal  robes  away, 
"  Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale,"  she  said, 

"  Where  I  may  mourn  and  pray." 

"  Yet  pull  not  down  my  palace  towers,  that  are 

So  lightly,  beautifully  built: 
Perchance  I  may  return  with  others  there 
When  I  have  purg'd  my  guilt." 


..^^Ig^fc^.. 


LADT  CLARA    VERE  DE   VERE. 


#c 


ADY  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown: 
You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 
For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
At  me  you  smil'd,  but  unbcguil'd 
I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retir'd: 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred   Earls 
You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name, 
Your,  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I  came. 

Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 
A  heart  that  dotes  on  truer  charms. 

A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 
Is  worth  a  hundred  coats-of-arms. 


126  LADT  CLARA    VERE  DE   VERE. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 
For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love, 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my  head. 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have  blown 

Since  I  beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 
Oh  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies : 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 

Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother's  view, 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you. 
Indeed  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear; 

Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 
Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall  • 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door: 

You  chang'd  a  wholesome  heart  to  gall. 
You  held  your  course  without  remorse, 

To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth, 
And,  last,  you  fix'd  a  vacant  stare, 

And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent 
The  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife 

Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

'Tis  only  noble  to  be  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 


LADT  CLARA    VERE  DE   VERE. 


12' 


I  know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere : 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and  towers 
The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 

U  wearied  <>f  the  rolling  hours. 
In  glowing  health,  with  boundless  wealth, 

But  sickening  of  a  vague  dise; 
You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time, 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as  these. 


Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  Time  be   heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands? 
Oh!  teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read, 

Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew, 
Pray  Heaven  for  a  human  heart, 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 


THE  MAT  QUEEN. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


OU  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear; 

To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year; 
Of  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,  the  maddest  merriest  day; 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

There's  many  a  black,  black  eye,  they  say,  but  none  so  bright  as  mine; 
There's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there's  Kate  and  Caroline: 
But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land  they  say, 
So  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I  shall  never  wake, 

If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to  break : 

But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  garlands  gay, 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

As  I  came  up  the  valley  whom  think  ye  should  I  see, 

But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the  hazel-tree  ? 

He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I  gave  him  yesterday, — - 

But  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

He  thought  I  was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I  was  all  in  white, 

And  I  ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like  a  flash  of  light. 

They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care  not  what  they  say, 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


They  say  he's  dying  all  for  love,  but  that  can  never  be : 

They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother — what  is  that  to  me? 

There's  many  a  bolder  lad  'ill  woo  me  any  summer  day, 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother^  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


THE  MAT  QUEEN. 


129 


Little  Effie  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green, 

And  you'll  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the  Queen; 

For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  'ill  come  from  far  away, 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  wov'n  its  wavy  bowers, 
And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint  sweet  cuckoo-flowers; 
And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like  fire  in  twampa  and  hollows  gray. 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the  meadow-grass, 
And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as  they  pass; 
There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  the  livelong  day, 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May 

All  the  valley,  mother,  'ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still, 

And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill, 

And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  'ill  merrily  glance  and  play, 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o1  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year; 
To-morrow  'ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest  merriest  day, 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o*  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 
9 


130 


THE  MAT  QUEEN. 


jtfeafefa 


NEW  YEARS'  EVE. 


F  you're  waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early," mother  dear, 
For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year. 
Tt  is  the  last  New-year  that  I  shall  ever  see, 
Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i'  the  mould  and  think  no  more  of  me. 


To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set :  he  set  and  left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my  peace  of  mind; 
And  the  New-year's  coming  up,  mother,  but  I  shall  never  see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 


Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers:  we  had  a  merry  day; 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made  me  Queen  of  May; 
And  we  danced  about  the  may-pole  and  in  the  hazel  copse, 
Till  Charles's  Wain  came  out  above  the  tall  white  chimney-tops. 


There's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills ;  the  frost  is  on  the  pane  i 
I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again: 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out  on  high: 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 


THE  MAT  Q UEEN.  131 


The  building  rook  'ill  caw  from  the  windy  tall  elm-tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea, 

And  the  swallow  'ill  come  back  again  with  summer  o'er  the  wave, 

But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering  grave.  • 

Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that  grave  of  mine, 
In  the  early  early  morning  the  summer  sun  'ill  shine, 
Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  upon  the  hill, 
When  you  are  warm-asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world  is  still, 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the  waning  light 
You'll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at  night; 
When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow  cool 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in  the  pool. 

You'll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  hawthorn  shade, 
And  you'll  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I  am  lowly  laid. 
I  shall  not  forget  you  mother,  I  shall  hear  you  when  you  pass, 
With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant  grass. 

I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you'll  forgive  me  now; 
You'll  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  and  forgive  me  ere  I  go; 
Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your  grief  be  wild, 
You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother,  you  have  another  child. 

If  I  can  I'll  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting-place; 
Tho1  you'll  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall  look  upon  your  face; 
Tho'  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  I  shall  hearken  what  you  say, 
And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you  think  I'm  far  away. 

Good-night,  good-night,  when  I  have  said  good-night  forevermore, 
And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the  door; 
Don't  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  growing  green; 
She'll  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I  have  been. 

She'll  find  my  garden  tools  upon  the  granary  floor; 
Let  her  take  'em:  they  are  hers:  I  shall  never  garden  more: 
But  tell  her,  when  I'm  gone,  to  train  the  rush-bush  that  I  set 
About  the  parlor-window  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

Good-night,  sweet  mother;  call  me  before  the  day  is  born, 
All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at  morn; 
But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year, 
So,  if  you're  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 


132 


THE  MAT  QUEEN. 


CONCLUSION. 


tffewA. 


! 


THOUGHT  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I  am; 
And  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the  bleating  of  the  lamb. 

rHow  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year! 
To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet's  here. 


O  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the  skies, 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me  that  cannot  rise, 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers  that  blow, 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me  that  long  to  go. 


It  seem'd  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed  sun, 
And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay,  and  yet  His  will  be  done! 
But  stillT  think  it  can't  be  long  before  I  find  release; 
And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words  of  peace. 

O  blessings  on  his  kindly  voice  and  on  his  silver  hair! 

And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet  me  there! 

0  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his  silver  head ! 

A  thousand  times  I  blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my  bed. 

He  taught  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  show'd  me  all  the  sin. 
Now,  tho'  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there's  One  will  let  me  in; 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother  again,  if  that  could  be, 
For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for  me. 

1  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death-watch  beat, 
There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the  night  and  morning  meet; 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell  the  sign. 


All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  the  angels  call; 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  was  over  all; 
The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  them  call  my  soul. 


THE  MAT  yl'EEN. 


133 


For  lying  broad  awake  I  thought  of  you  and  Effie  dear; 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no  longer  here; 
With  all  my  strength  I  pray'd  for  both,  and  so  I  felt  resign'd 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the  wind. 

I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listen'd  in  mv  bed, 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me — I  know  not  what  was  said; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my  mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping:  and  I  said,  "It's  not  for  them:  it's  mine." 
And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I  thought,  I  take  it  for  a  sign. 
And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window-bars, 
Then  seem'd  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven  and  die  among  the  stars. 


So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near.     I  trust  it  is.     I  know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will  have  to  go. 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go  to-day. 
But,  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I  am  past  away. 


134 


THE  MAT  QUEEN. 


And  say  to  Robin  a  kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to  fret ; 
There's  many  worthier  than  I,  would  make  him  happy  yet, 
If  I  had  lived — I  cannot  tell — I  might  have  been  his  wife; 
But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with  my  desire  of  life. 

O  look!  the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a  glow; 

He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I  know. 

And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light  may  shine — 

Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands  than  mine. 

O  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me  that  ere  this  day  is  done 
The  voice,  that  now  is  speaking,  may  be  beyond  the  sun — 
Forever  and  forever  with  those  just  souls  and  true — 
And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan?  why  make  we  such  ado? 

Forever  and  forever,  all  in  a  blessed  home — 

And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  you  and  Effie  come — 

To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie  upon  your  breast — 

And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


135 


THE    LOTOS-EATERS, 


OTJRAGE!"  he  said,  and  pointed  toward  the  Land, 

"Tliis  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shoreward  soon." 
In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did  swoon, 
Breathing  like  one  that  hath  n  weary  dream. 
Full-fac'd  above  the  valley  stood  the  moon; 
And  like  a  downward  smoke  the  slender  stream 
Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall  did  seem. 


136  THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


A  land  of  streams!  some,  like  a  downward  smoke, 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did  go; 

And  some  thro'  wavering  lights  and  shadows  broke, 

Rolling  a  slumberous  sheet  of  foam  below. 

They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward  flow 

From  the  inner  land :  far  off,  three  mountain-tops, 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow, 

Stood  sunset-flush'd:  and,  dew'd  with  showery  drops t 

Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the  woven  copse. 


The  charmed  sunset  linger'd  low  adown 

In  the  red  West:  thro'  mountain  clefts  the  dale 

Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 

Border'd  with  palm,  and  many  a  winding  vale 

And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galingale: 

A  land  where  all  things  always  seem'd  the  samel 

And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale, 

Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 

The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eaters  came. 

Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted  stem, 

Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof  they  gave 

To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them, 

And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  ot  the  wave 

Far,  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and  rave 

On  alien  shores;  and  if  his  fellow  spake, 

His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the  grave; 

And  deep  asleep  he  seem'd,  yet  all  awake, 

And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating:  heart  did  make. 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS.  13r 


They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow  sand, 
Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the  shore; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Fatherland, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave;  but  evermore 
Most  weary  seem'd  the  sea,  weary  the  oar, 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 
Then  some  one  said,  tt  We  will  return  no  more"; 
And  all  at  once  they  sang,  "  Our  island  home 
Is  far  beyond  the  wave;  we  will  no  longer  roam." 


CIIOKIC    SONG. 


HERE  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls 
Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass, 
Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between  walls 
Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaming  pass; 
Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 
Than  tir'd  eyelids  upon  tir'd  eyes: 
Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from  the  blissful  skies. 
Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 
And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 
And  in  the  stream  the  long-leav'd  flowers  weep, 
And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs  in  sleep. 

Why  are  we  weigh'd  upon  with  heaviness, 

And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  distress, 

While  all  things  else  have  rest  from  weariness? 

All  things  have  rest:  why  should  we  toil  alone, 

We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things, 

And  make  perpetual  moan, 

Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown: 

Nor  ever  fold  our  wings, 

And  cease  from  wanderings, 

Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy  balm; 

Nor  hearken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 

"  There  is  no  joy  but  calm!  " 

Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and  crown  of  things? 

Lo!  in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 
The  folded  leaf  is  woo'd  from  out  the  bud 
With  winds  upon  the  branch   and  there 
Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no  care, 


138  THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 

Sun-steep'd  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 

Nightly  dew-fed ;  and  turning  yellow 

Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 

Lo!  sweeten'd  with  the  summer  light, 

The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over-mellow, 

Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 

All  its  allotted  length  of  days, 

The  flower  ripens  in  its  place, 

Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no  toil 

Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 

Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 

Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 

Death  is  the  end  of  life;  ah,  why 

Should  life  all  labor  be? 

Let  us  alone.     Time  driveth  onward  fast, 

And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 

Let  us  alone.     What  is  it  that  will  last? 

All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 

Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  Past. 

Let  us  alone.     What  pleasure  can  wre  have 

To  war  with  evil  ?     Is  there  any  peace 

In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave? 

All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward  the  grave 

In  silence;  ripen,  fall  and  cease: 

Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death,  or  dreamful  ease. 

How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward  stream, 
With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 
Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream! 
"To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber  light, 
Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on  the  height; 
To  hear  each  others  whisper'd  speech; 
Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day, 
To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the  beach, 
And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray ; 
To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 
To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melancholy; 
To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in  memory, 
With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 
Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass, 
Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an  urn  of  brass! 

Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives, 
And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS.  139 


And  their  warm  tears;  but  all  hath  suffer'd  change; 
For  surely  now  our  household  hearths  are  cold : 
Our  sons  inherit  us:  our  looks  are  strange: 
And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to  trouble  joy. 
Or  else  the  island  princes,  over-bold 
Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the   minstrel  sings 
Before  them  of  the  ten  years'  war  in  Troy, 
And  our  great  deeds,  as  half-forgotten  things. 
Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle? 
Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 
The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile: 
Tis  hard  to  settle  oixler  once  again. 
There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 
Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain, 
Long  labor  unto  aged  breath, 
Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  with  many  wars 
And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on  the  pilot-stars. 

But,  propt  on  beds  ot  amaranth  and  moly, 

How  sweet  (while  warm  airs  lull  us,  blowing  lowly) 

With  half-dropt  eyelids  still, 

Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy, 

To  watch  the  long  bright  river  drawing  slowly 

His  waters  from  the  purple  hill — 

To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 

From  cave  to  cave  thro'  the  thick-twined  vine — 

To  watch  the  emerald-col orM  water  foiling 

Thro'  many  a  wov'n  acanthus-wreath  divine! 

Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  sparkling  brine, 

Onlv  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretched  out  beneath  the  pine. 

The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren  peak: 

The  Lotos  blows  by  every  winding  creek : 

All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with  mellower  tone: 

Thro*  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 

Round  and  round  the  spicy   downs   the  yellow   Lotos-dust  is 

blown. 
We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of  motion  we, 
Roll  d  to  starboard,  roll'd  to  larboard,  when   the  surge   was 

seething  free, 
Where  the  wallowing  monster  spouted  his   foam-fountains  in 

on  the  sea. 
Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with  an  equal  mind, 
In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live,  and  lie  reclin'd 
On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  careless  of  mankind. 


140 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the  bolts  are  hurl'd 

Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the  clouds  are  lighty  curl'd 

Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with  the  gleaming  world; 

Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking  over  wasted  lands, 

Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earthquake,  roaring  deeps  and  fiery 

sands, 
Clanging  fights,  and  flaming  towns,  and   sinking  ships,  and  pray- 
ing hands. 
But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  centred  in  a  doleful  song 
Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an  ancient  tale  of  wrong, 
Like  a  tale  of  little  meaning  tho'  the  words  are  strong; 
Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men  that  cleave  the  soil, 
Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest  with  enduring  toil, 
Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and  wine  and  oil; 
Till  they  perish  and  they  suffer — some,  'tis  whisper'd — down  in  hell 
Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in  Elysian  valleys  dwell, 
Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds  of  asphodel. 
Surely,  surely,  slumber  is  more  sweet  than  toil,  the  shore 
Than  labor  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind  and  wave  and  oar; 
O  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not  wander  more. 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR   WOMEN. 


14] 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR    WOMEN. 


W     ^*.jc'    K  KAD,  before  my  eyelids  dropt  their  shade, 
<>        -j?'*  "  ^^  Legend  of  Good  Women"  long  ago 

I        Vimr    Sung  Kv  tMe  niorning  star  of  song,  who  made 


^■M'^. 


His  music  heard  below 


J"  ;^j  Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose  sweet  breath 
Preluded  those  melodious  bursts  that  fill 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
With  sounds  that  echo  still. 


And,  for  a  while,  the  knowledge  of  his  art 

Held  me  above  the  subject,  as  strong  gales 

Hold  swollen  clouds  from  raining,  tho'  my  heart, 
Brimful  of  those  wild  tales, 

ChargM  both  mine  eyes  with  tears.     In  every  land 

I  saw,  wherever  light  illumineth, 
Beauty  and  anguish  walking  hand  in  hand 

The  downward  slope  to  death. 


Those  far-renowned  brides  of  ancient  song 

Peopl'd  the  hollow  dark,  like  burning  stars, 

And  I  heard  sounds  of  insult,  shame,  and  wrong, 
And  trumpets  blown  for  wars; 

And  clattering  flints  batter'd  with  clanging  hoofs: 
And  I  saw  crowds  in  column'd  sanctuaries; 

And  forms  that  pass'd  at  windows  and  on  roofs 
Of  marble  palaces; 


Corpses  across  the  threshold ;  heroes  tall 
Dislodging  pinnacle  and  parapet 

Upon  the  tortoise  creeping  to  the  wall; 
Lances  in  ambush  set; 


142 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR   WOMEN. 


And  high  shrine-doors  burst  thro'  with  heated  blasts 
That  run  before  the  fluttering  tongues  of  fire; 

White  surf  wind-scatter'd  over  sails  and  masts, 
And  ever  climbing  higher; 

Squadrons  and  squares  of  men  in  brazen  plates, 
Scaffolds,  still  sheets  of  water,  divers  woes, 

Ranges  of  glimmering  vaults  with  iron  grates, 
i\nd  hush'd  seraglios. 


So  shape  chas'd  shape  as  swift  as,  when  to  land 

Bluster  the  winds  and  tides  the  self-same  way, 

Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along  the  level  sand, 
Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray. 

I  started  once,  or  seem'd  to  start  in  pain, 

Resolv'd  on  noble  things,  and  strove  to  speak, 

As  when  a  great  thought  strikes  along  the  brain, 
And  flushes  all  the  cheek. 

And  once  my  arm  was  lifted  to  hew  down 
A  cavalier  from  off  his  saddle-bow, 

That  bore  a  lady  from  a  leaguer'd  town; 
And  then,  I  know  not  how, 


All  those  sharp  fancies  by  down-lapsing  thought 

Stream'd  onward,  lost  their  edges,  and  did  creep, 

Roll'd  on  each  other,  rounded,  smooth'd,  and  brought 
Into  the  gulfs  of  sleep. 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN.  143 

At  last  methought  that  I  had  wander'd  far 

In  an  old  wood:  fresh  wash'd  in  coolest  dew, 

The  maiden  splendors  of  the  morning  star 
Shook  in  the  steadfast  blue. 

Enormous  elm-tree  boles  did  stoop  and  lean 

Upon  the  dusky  brushwood  underneath 
Their  broad  curv'd  branches,  fledged  with  clearest  green., 

New  from  its  silken  sheath. 

The  dim  red  morn  had  died,  her  journey  done, 

And  with  dead  lips  smil'd  at  the  twilight  plain, 

Half-fall'n  across  the  threshold  of  the  sun, 
Never  to  rise  again. 

There  was  no  motion  in  the  dumb  dead  air, 

Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  of  rill ; 
Gross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 

Is  not  so  deadly  still 

As  that  wide  forest.     Growths  of  jasmine  turn'd 

Their  humid  arms  festooning  tree  to  tree, 
And  at  the  root  thro'  lush  green  grasses  burn'd 

The  red  anemone. 

I  knew  the  flowers,  I  knew  the  leaves,  I  knew 

The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid  dawn 
On  those  long,  rank,  dark  wood-walks  drench'd  in  dew, 

Leading  from  lawn  to  lawn. 

The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the  green, 

PourM  back  into  my  empty  soul  and  frame 
The  times  when  I  remember  to  have  been 

Joyful  and  free  from  blame. 

And  from  within  me  a  clear  under-tone 

ThrilPd  thro'  mine  ears  in  that  unblissfull  clime,   ' 

"  Pass  freely  thro' :  the  wood  is  all  thine  own, 
Until  the  end  of  time." 

At  length  I  saw  a  lady  within  call, 

Stiller  than  chisell'd  marble,  standing  there; 

A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 
And  most  divinely  fair. 


144  A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 

Her  loveliness  with  shame  and  with  surprise 

Froze  my  swift  speech;  she  turning  on  my  face 

The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes, 
Spoke  slowly  in  her  place. 

rt  I  had  great  beauty :  ask  thou  not  my  name : 
No  one  can  be  more  wise  than  destiny. 

Many  drew  swords  and  died.     Where'er  I  came 
I  brought  calamity." 

"No  marvel,  sovereign  lady:  in  fair  field 

Myself  for  such  a  face  had  boldly  died." 

I  answer'd  free;  and  turning  I  appeal'd 
To  one  that  stood  beside. 

But  she,  with  sick  and  scornful  looks  averse, 
*  To  her  full  height  her  stately  stature  draws; 

"  My  youth,"  she  said,  "  was  blasted  with  a  curse: 
This  woman  was  the  cause. 

"  I  was  cut  off  from  hope  in  that  sad  place, 

Which  yet  to  name  my  spirit  loathes  and  fears: 

My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  face: 
I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 

"  Still  strove  to  speak;  my  voice  was  thick  with  sighs 
As  in  a  dream.     Dimly  I  could  descry 

The  stern  black-bearded  kings  with  wolfish  eyes, 
Waiting  to  see  me  die. 

"  The  high  masts  flicker'd  as  they  lay  afloat; 

The  crowds,  the  temples,  waver'd,  and  the  shore; 
The  bright  death  quiver'd  at  the  victim's  throat; 

Touch'd ;  and  I  knew  no  more." 

Whereto  the  other  with  a  downward  brow : 

"  I  would  the  white  cold  heavy-plunging  foam, 

Whirl'd  by  the  wind,  had  roll'd  me  deep  below, 
Then  when  I  left  my  home." 

Her  slow  full  words  sank  thro'  the  silence  drear, 
As  thunder-drops  fall  on  a  sleeping  sea; 


"  A  queen  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold  black  eyes.1 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR   WOMEN.  145 

Sudden  I  heard  a  voice  that  cried,  "  Come  here, 
That  I  may  look  on  thee." 

I  turning  saw,  thron'd  on  a  flowery  rise, 

One  sitting  on  a  crimson  scarf  unrolPd; 
A  queen,  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold  black  eyes, 

Brow-bound  with  burning  gold. 

She,  flashing  forth  a  haughty  smile,  began: 

"  I  governM  men  by  change,  and  so  I  sway'd 

All  moods.     'Tis  long  since  I  have  seen  a  man. 
Once,  like  the  moon,  I  made 

**  The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the  blood 

According  to  my  humor  ebb  and  flow. 
I  have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood: 

That  makes  my  only  woe. 

aNay — yet  it  chafes  me  that  I  could  not  bend 

One  will;  nor  tame  and  tutor  with  mine  eye 

That  dull  cold-blooded  Caesar.     Pry  thee,  friend, 
Where  is  Mark  Antony? 

"  The  man,  my  lover,  with  whom  I  rode  sublime 
On  Fortune's  neck:  we  sat  as  God  by  God: 

The  Nilus  would  have  risen  before  his  time 
And  flooded  at  our  nod. 

"  We  drank  the  Libyan  sun  to  sleep,  and  lit 

Lamps  which  outburn'd  Canopus.     O  my  life 

In  Egypt!     O  the  dalliance  and  the  wit, 
The  flattery  and  the  strife, 

"  And  the  wild  kiss,  when  fresh  from  war's  alarms, 

My  Hercules,  my  Roman  Antony, 
My  mailed  Bacchus  leapt  into  my  arms, 

Contented  there  to  die! 

44  And  there  he  died:  and  when  I  heard  my  name 

Sigh'd  forth  with  life  I  would  not  brook  my  fear 

Of  the  other:  with  a  worm  I  balk'd  his  fame. 
What  else  was  left?  look  here!" 
10 


146 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


(With  that  she  tore  her  robe  apart,  and  half 
The  polish'd  argent  of  her  breast  to  sight 

Laid  bare.     Thereto  she  pointed  with  a  laugh, 
Showing  the  aspic's  bite.) 


"  I  died  a  Queen.     The  Roman  soldier  found 
Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my  brows, 

A  name  forever! — lying  robed  and  crown'd, 
Worthy  a  Roman  spouse." 

Her  warbling  voice,  a  lyre  of  widest  range 

Struck  by  all  passion,  did  fall  down  and  glance 

From  tone  to  tone,  and  glided  thro'  all  change 
Of  liveliest  utterance. 

When  she  made  pause  I  knew  not  for  delight; 

Because  with  sudden  motion  from  the  ground 
She  rais'd  her  piercing  orbs,  and  fill'd  with  light 

The  interval  of  sound. 


Still  with  their  fires  Love  tipt  his  keenest  darts; 

As  once  they  drew  into  two  burning  rings 
All  beams  of  Love,  melting  the  mighty  hearts 

Of  captains  and  of  kings. 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR   WOMEN. 


147 


Slowly  my  sense  undazzled.     Then  I  heard 

A  noise  of  some  one  coming  thro'  the  lawn, 

And  singing  clearer  than  the  crested  bird, 
Thai  claps  his  wings  at  dawn. 

uT1r-  torrent  brooks  of  hallow'd  Israel 

Prom  craggy  hollows  pouring,  late  and  soon, 

Sound  all  night  long,  in  falling  thfO1  the  dell, 

Par-heard  beneath  the  moon. 


u  The  balmy  moon  of  blessed  Israel 

Floods  all  the  deep-blue  gloom  with  beams  divine 
All  night  the  splinter'd  crags  that  wall  the  dell 

With  spires  of  silver  shine." 


As  one  that  museth  where  broad  sunshine  laves 
The  lawn  of  some  cathedral,  thro'  the  door 

Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  waves 
Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor 


148  A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


Within,  and  anthem  sung,  is  charm'd  and  tied 

To  where  he  stands, — so  stood  I,  when  that  flow 

Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 
To  save  her  father's  vow ; 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Gileadite, 

A  maiden  pure;  as  when  she  went  along 

From  Mizpeh's  tower'd  gate  with  welcome  light, 
With  timbrel  and  with  song. 

My  words  leapt  forth :  "  Heaven  heads  the  count  of  crimes 
With  that  wild  oath."     She  render'd  answer  high : 

"  Not  so,  nor  once  alone;  a  thousand  times 
I  would  be  born  and  die. 

"  Single  I  grew,  like  some  green  plant,  whose  root 
Creeps  to  the  garden  water-pipes  beneath, 

Feeding  the  flower;  but  ere  my  flower  to  fruit 
Chang'd,  I  was  ripe  for  death. 

"  My  God,  my  land,  my  father, — these  did  move 
Me  from  my  bliss  of  life,  that  Nature  gave, 
Lower'd  softly  with  a  threefold  cord  of  love 
Down  to  a  silent  grave. 

"  And  I  went  mourning,  '  No  fair  Hebrew  boy 
Shall  smile  away  my  maiden  blame  among 

The  Hebrew  mothers  ' — emptied  of  all  joy, 
Leaving  the  dance  and  song, 

"  Leaving  the  olive-gardens  far  below, 

Leaving  the  promise  of  my  bridal  bower, 

The  valleys  of  grape-loaded  vines  that  glow 
Beneath  the  battled  tower. 

"  The  light  white  cloud  swam  over  us.  Anon 
We  heard  the  lion  roaring  from  his  den; 

We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one  by  one, 
Or,  from  the  darken'd  glen, 

"  Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying  flame, 
And  thunder  on  the  everlasting  hills. 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEX. 


H9 


I  heard  Him,  for  He  spake,  and  grief  became 
A  solemn  scorn  of  ills. 

"  When  the  next  moon  was  roll'd  into  the  sky, 
Strength  came  to  me  that  equalled  my  desire. 

How  beautiful  a  thing  it  was  to  die 
For  God  and  for  my  sire ! 

"  It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought  to  dwell, 
That  I  subdu'd  me  to  my  father's  will; 

Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me,  ere  I  fell, 
Sweetens  the  spirit  still. 

"  Moreover  it  is  written  that  my  race 

Hew'd  Ammon,  hip  and  thigh,  from  Aroer 

On  Anion  unto  Minneth."     Here  her  face 
Glow'd  as  I  look'd  at  her. 


She  lock'd  her  lips:  she  left  me  where  I  stood: 
"  Glory  to  God,"  she  sang,  and  past  afar, 

Thridding  the  sombre  boskage  of  the  wood, 
Toward  the  morning-star. 


150  A  DREAM  OF  FAIR   WOMEN. 

Losing  her  carol  I  stood  pensively, 

As  one  that  from  a  casement  leans  his  head, 

When  midnight  bells  cease  ringing  suddenly, 
And  the  old  year  is  dead. 

"Alas!  alas! "  a  low  voice,  full  of  care, 

Murmur'd  beside  me:  "  Turn  and  look  on  me: 

I  am  that  Rosamond,  whom  men  call  fair, 
If  what  I  was  I  be. 

"  Would  I  had  been  some  maiden  coarse  and  poor! 

O  me,  that  I  should  ever  see  the  light! 
Those  dragon  eyes  of  anger'd  Eleanor 

Do  haunt  me,  day  and  night." 

She  ceas'd  in  tears,  fallen  from  hope  and  trust. 

To  whom  the  Egyptian:  "  O,  you  tamely  died! 
You  should  have  clung  to  Fulvia's  waist,  and  thrust 

The  dagger  thro'  her  side." 

With  that  sharp  sound  the  white  dawn's  creeping  beams, 
Stol'n  to  my  brain,  dissolv'd  the  mystery 

Of  folded  sleep.     The  captain  of  my  dreams 
Rul'd  in  the  eastern  sky. 

Morn  broaden'd  on  the  borders  of  the  dark, 

Ere  I  saw  her,  who  clasp'd  in  her  last  trance 

Her  murder'd  father's  head,  or  Joan  of  Arc, 
A  light  of  ancient  France; 

O,  her,  who  knew  that  Love  can  vanquish  Death, 
Who  kneeling,  with  one  arm  about  her  king, 

Drew  forth  the  poison  with  her  balmy  breath, 
Sweet  as  new  buds  in  Spring. 

No  memory  labors  longer  from  the  deep 

Gold-mines  of  thought  to  lift  the  hidden  ore 

That  glimpses,  moving  up,  than  I  from  sleep 
To  gather  and  tell  o'er 


Each  little  sound  and  sight.     With  what  dull  pain 
Compass'd,  how  eagerly  I  sought  to  strike 


JOAN  OF  ARC. 


MARGARET 


151 


Into  that  wondrous  track  of  dreams  again! 
But  no  two  dreams  are  like. 


As  when  a  soul  laments,  which  hath  been  blest, 
Desiring  what  is  mingPd  with  past  years, 

In  yearning  that  can  never  be  exprest 
By  signs  or  groans  or  tears; 

Because  all  words,  tho1  cull'd  with  choicest  art, 
Failing  to  give  the  bitter  of  the  sweet, 

Wither  beneath  the  palate,  and  the  heart 
Faints,  faded  by  its  heat. 


.->$=:*^*^ 


MARGARET. 


SWEET  pale  Margaret, 
O  rare  pale  Margaret, 
What  lit  your  eyes  with  tearful  power, 
Like  moonlight  on  a  falling  shower? 
viQ-i  Who  lent  you,  love,  your  mortal  dower 

Of  pensive  thought  and  aspect  pale, 
'"'■'  Your  melancholy,  sweet  and  frail 

As  perfume  of  the  cuckoo-flower : 
From  the  westward  winding  flood, 
From  the  evening-lighted  wood, 

From  all  things  outward  you  have  won 
A  tearful. grace,  as  tho'  you  stood 

Between  the  rainbow  and  the  sun. 
The  very  smile  before  you  speak, 
That  dimples  your  transparent  cheek, 

Encircles  all  the  heart,  and  fecdeth 
The  senses  with  a  still  delight 

Of  dainty  sorrow  without  sound, 
Like  the  tender  amber  round, 
Which  the  moon  about  her  spreadeth 
Moving  thro'  a  fleecy  night. 


152  MARGARET. 


You  love,  remaining  peacefully, 

To  hear  the  murmur  of  the  strife, 
But  enter  not  the  toil  of  life. 

Your,  spirit  is  the  calmed  sea, 

Laid  by  the  tumult  of  the  fight. 

You  are  the  evening  star,  alway 

Remaining  betwixt  dark  and  bright: 

Lull'd  echoes  of  laborious  day 

Come  to  you,  gleams  of  yellow  light 
Float  by  you  on  the  verge  of  night. 

What  can  it  matter,  Margaret, 

What  songs  below  the  waning  stars 
The  lion-heart,  Plantagenet, 

Sang  looking  thro'  his  prison  bars? 
Exquisite  Margaret,  who  can  tell 
The  last  wild  thought  of  Chatalet, 
Just  ere  the  fallen  axe  did  part 
The  burning  brain  from  the  true  heart, 
Even  in  her  sight  he  loved  so  well? 

A  fairy  shield  your  Genius  made 

And  gave  you  on  your  natal  day. 
Your  sorrow,  only  sorrow's  shade, 

Keeps  real  sorrow  far  away. 
You  move  not  in  such  solitudes, 

You  are  not  less  divine, 
But  more  human  in  your  moods, 

Than  your  twin -sister,  Adeline. 
Your  hair  is  darker,  and  your  eyes 

Touch'd  with  a  somewhat  darker  hue, 

And  less  aerially  blue 

But  ever  trembling  thro'  the  dew 
Of  dainty-woful  sympathies. 

O  sweet  pale  Margaret, 
O  rare  pale  Margaret, 
Come  down,  come  down,  and  hear  me  speak? 
Tie  up  the  ringlets  on  your  cheek: 

The  sun  is  just  about  to  set. 
The  arching  limes  are  tall  and  shady, 
And  faint,  rainy  lights  are  seen, 
Moving  in  the  leafy  beech. 


'Blackbird  !     sing  me  something  well." 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 


153 


Rise  from  the  feast  of  sorrow,  lady, 

Where  all  day  long  you  sit  between 
Joy  and  woe,  and  whisper  each. 

Or  only  look  across  the  lawn. 

Look  out  below  your  bower-eaves, 

Look  down,  and  let  your  blue  eyes  dawn 
Upon  me  thro'  the  jasmine-leaves. 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 


Blackbird!  sing  me  something  well. 

While  all  the  neighbors  shoot  thee  round. 

I  keep  smooth  plats  of  fruitful  ground, 
Where  thou  may'st  warble,  eat,  and  dwell. 

The  espaliers  and  the  standards  all 

Are  thine;  the  range  of  lawn  and  park: 
The  unnetted  black-hearts  ripen  dark, 

All  thine,  against  the  garden  wall. 

Yet,  tho'  I  spared  thee  all  the  Spring, 
Thy  sole  delight  is,  sitting  still, 
With  that  gold  dagger  of  thy  bill 

To  fret  the  Summer  jenneting. 


A  golden  bill!  the  silver  tongue, 

Cold  February  loved,  is  dry: 

Plenty  corrupts  the  melody 
That  made  thee  famous  once,  when  young: 

And  in  the  sultry  garden-squares, 

Now  thy  flute  notes  are  chang'd  to  coarse, 
I  hear  thee  not  at  all,  or  hoarse 

As  when  a  hawker  hawks  his  wares. 


Take  warning!  he  that  will  not  sing 
While  yon  sun  prospers  in  the  blue, 
Shall  sing  for  want,  ere  leaves  are  new, 

Caught  in  the  frozen  palms  of  Spring. 


154 


THE  GOOSE. 


THE  GOOSE. 


knew  an  old  wife  lean  and  poor, 

Her  rags  scarce  held  together; 
There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door, 

And  it  was  windy  weather. 

He  held  a  goose  upon  his  arm, 

He  utter'd  rhyme  and  reason, 
"  Here,  take  the  goose,  and  keep  you  warm, 

It  is  a  stormy  season." 


She  caught  the  white  goose  by  the  leg. 

A  goose — 'twas  no  great  matter. 
The  goose  let  fall  a  golden  egg 

With  cackle  and  with  clatter. 

She  dropt  the  goose  and  caught  the  pelf, 
And  ran  to  tell  her  neighbors; 
And  bless'd  herself,  and  curs'd  herself, 
And  rested  from  her  labors. 


And  feeding  high,  and   living  soft, 
Grew  plump  and  able-bodied; 

Until  the  grave  churchwarden  doff'd, 
The  parson  smirk'd  and  nodded:      * 

So  sitting,  serv'd  by  man  and  maid, 
She  felt  her  heart  grow  prouder: 

But  ah!  the  more  the  white  goose  laid 
It  clack'd  and  cackled  louder. 


It  clutter'd  here,  it  chuckled  there; 

It  stirr'd  the  old  wife's  mettle: 
She  shifted  in  her  elbow-chair, 

And  hurl'd  the  pan  and  kettle. 


THE  GOOSE. 


155 


"  A  quinsy  choke  thy  cursed  note!  " 
Then  wax'd  her  anger  stronger. 

"Go,  take  the  goose,  and  wring  her  throat, 
I  will  not  bear  it  longer." 

Then  yelp'd  the  cur,  and  yawPd  the  cat; 

Ran  Gaffer,  stumbled  Gammer; 
The  goose  flew  this  way  and  flew  that, 

And  filPd  the  house  with  clamor. 


As  head  and  heels  upon  the  floor 
They  flounder'd  all  together, 

There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door, 
And  it  was  windy  weather: 


He  took  the  goose  upon  his  arm, 
He  utterM  words  of  scorning; 

"  So  keep  you  cold,  or  keep  you  warm, 
It  is  a  stormy  morning." 


156 


O  DARLING  ROOM. 


The  wild  wind  rang  from  park  and  plain, 
And  round  the  attics  rumbled, 

Till  all  the  tables  danc'd  again 
And  half  the  chimneys  tumbled. 

The  glass  blew  in,  the  fire  blew  out, 
The  blast  was  hard  and  harder, 

Her  cap  blew  off,  her  gown  blew  up, 
And  a  whirlwind  clear'd  the  larder; 

And  while  on  all  sides  breaking  loose 
Her  household  fled  the  danger, 

Quoth  she,  "  The  Devil  take  the  goose, 
And  God  forget  the  stranger." 


•-^^^jg-^c^- 


O  DARLING  ROOM, 

J?  DARLING  room,  my  heart's  delight, 
^ikBJp  ^ear  room5  tne  apple  of  my  sight, 

F™  With  thy  two  couches  soft  and  white, 
There  is  no  room  so  exquisite, 
No  little  room  so  warm  and  bright, 
1  Wherein  to  read,  wherein  to  write 

For  I  the  Nonnenwerth  have  seen, 
And  Oberwinter's  vineyards  green, 
Musical  Lurlei;  and  between 
The  hills  to  Bingen  have  I  been, 
Bingen  in  Darmstadt,  where  the  Rhene 
Curves  toward  Mentz,  a  woody  scene. 


Yet  never  did  there  meet  my  sight, 

In  any  town  to  left  or  right, 

A  little  room  so  exquisite, 

With  two  such  couches  soft  and  white; 

Not  any  room  so  warm  and  bright, 

Wherein  to  read,  wherein  to  write. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  TEAR. 


157 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD   TEAR. 


ULL  knee  deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 

And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sighing! 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die: 

You  came  to  us  so  readily, 

You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 


He  lieth  still:  he  doth  not  move: 

He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true,  true-love, 

And  the  New-year  will  take  'em  away. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  go; 

So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us, 

Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us, 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 


He  froth'd  his  bumpers  to  the  brim; 

A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 

But  tho'  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 

And  tho7  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 

He  was  a  friend  to  inc. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die; 
We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 
I've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 
Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 


He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest, 
But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 
To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he'll  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my  friend, 


158 


TO  J- 


And  the  New-year  blithe  and  bold,  my  friend, 
Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes!  over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro : 
The  cricket  chirps :  the  light  burns  low : 
'Tis  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we'll  dearly  rue  for  you: 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  ? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
Alack !  our  friend  is  gone, 
Close  up  his  eyes:  tie  up  his  chin; 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone, 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend, 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 


•-£=3<fc^|c<8se==<— • 


TO  J- 


HE  wind,  that  beats  the  mountain,  blows 
More  softly  round  the  open  wold, 

And  gently  comes  the  world  to  those 
That  are  cast  in  gentle  mould. 

And  me  this  knowledge  bolder  made, 
Or  else  I  had  not  dared  to  flow 

In  these  words  toward  you,  and  invade 
Even  with  a  verse  your  holy  woe. 


'Tis  strange  that  those  we  lean  on  most, 
Those  in  whose  laps  our  limbs  are  nurs'd, 


TO  J- 


159 


Fall  into  shadow,  soonest  lost: 
Those  we  love  first  are  taken 


first. 


God  gives  us  love.     Something  to  love 
He  lends  us;  but,  when  love  is  grown 

To  ripeness,  that  on  which  it  throve 
Falls  off,  and  love  is  left  alone. 

This  is  the  curse  of  time.     Alas! 

In  grief  I  am  not  all  unlearn'd; 
Once  thro'  mine  own  doors  Death  did  pass; 

One  went,  who  never  hath  returned. 

He  will  not  smile — not  speak  to  me 

Once  more.     Two  years  his  chair  is  seen 

Empty  before  us.     That  was  he 
Without  whose  life  I  had  not  been. 


Your  loss  is  rarer;  for  this  star 
Rose  with  you  thro'  a  little  arc 

Of  heaven,  nor  having  wander'd  far 
Shot  on  the  sudden  into  dark. 


I  knew  your  brother:  his  mute  dust 

I  honor  and  his  living  worth : 
A  man  more  pure  and  bold  and  just 

Was  never  born  into  the  earth. 

1  have  not  lookVl  upon  you  nigh, 

Since  that  dear  soul  had  falPn  asleep. 
Great  Nature  is  more  wise  than  I : 
I  will  not  tell  you  not  to  weep. 

And  tho'  mine  own  eyes  fill  with  dew, 
Drawn  from  the  spirit  thro'  the  brain, 

2  will  not  even  preach  to  you, 

"  Weep,  weeping  dulls  the  inward  pain." 


Let  Grief  be  her  own  mistress  still. 

She  loveth  her  own  anguish  deep 
More  than  much  pleasure.     Let  her  will 

Be  done — to  weep  or  not  to  weep. 


160  TO  J- 


I  will  not  say,  "  God's  ordinance 

Of  death  is  blown  in  every  wind  "; 

For  that  is  not  a  common  chance 
That  takes  away  a  noble  mind. 

His  memory  long  will  live  alone 
In  all  our  hearts,  as  mournful  light 

That  broods  above  the  fallen  sun, 

And  dwells  in  heaven  half  the  night. 

Vain  solace!  Memory  standing  near 
Cast  down  her  eyes,  and  in  her  throat 

Her  voice  seem'd  distant,  and  a  tear 
Droot  on  the  letters  as  I  wrote. 

I  wrote  I  know  not  what.  In  truth, 
How  should  I  soothe  you  anyway, 

Who  miss  the  brother  of  your  youth? 
Yet  something  I  did  wish  to  say: 

For  he  too  was  a  friend  to  me: 

Both  are  my  friends,  and  my  true  breast 
Bleedeth  for  both :  yet  it  may  be 

That  only  silence  suiteth  best. 

Words  weaker  than  your  grief  would  make 
Grief  more.     'T  were  better  I  should  cease ; 

Although  myself  could  almost  take 
The  place  of  him  that  sleeps  in  peace. 

Sleep  sweetly,  tender  heart,  in  peace ; 

Sleep,  holy  spirit,  blessed  soul, 
While  the  stars  burn,  the  moons  increase, 

And  the  great  ages  onward  roll. 

Sleep  till  the  end,  true  soul  and  sweet, 
Nothing  comes  to  thee  new  or  strange, 

Sleep  full  of  rest  from  head  to  feet ; 
Lie  still,  dry  dust,  secure  of  change. 


FREEDOM. 


161 


FREEDOM. 


F  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 

The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet 
Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights; 
She  heard  the  torrents  meet 

There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 
Self-gather'd  in  her  prophet-mind, 

But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Came  rolling  on  the  wind. 


Then  stept  she  down  thro'  town  and  field 
To  mingle  with  the  human  race, 
And  part  by  part  to  men  reveal'd 

The  fulness  of  her  face — 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works, 

From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down, 

Who,  God-like,  grasps  the  triple-forks, 
And,  King-like,  wears  the  crown: 

Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  them.     May  perpetual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears; 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and  shine, 

Make  bright  our  days  and  light  our  dreams, 

Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes  I 


^ 


11 


162 


TOU  ASK  MB,   WHY. 


TOU  ASK  ME,    WHT. 


OU  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease, 
Within  this  region  I  subsist, 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist, 

And  languish  for  the  purple  seas? 

It  is  a  land  that  freemen  till, 

That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose, 
The  land,  where  girt  with  friends  or  foes 
A  man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will; 


A  land  of  settled  government, 

A  land  of  just  and  old  renown 
Where  freedom  broadens  slowly  down 

From  precedent  to  precedent; 

Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head, 
But  by  degrees  to  fulness  wrought, 
The  strength  of  some  diffusive  thought 

Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and  spread. 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce  a  time 
When  single  thought  is  civil  crime, 

And  individual  freedom  mute; 

Tho'  Power  should  make  from  land  to  land 
The  name  of  Britain  trebly  great — 
Tho'  every  channel  of  the  State 

Should  almost  choke  with  golden  sand — 


Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbor-mouth, 
Wild  wind!  I  seek  a  warmer  sky, 
And  I  will  see  before  I  die 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South. 


LOVE  THOU  THY  LAND. 


163 


LOVE  THOU  THY  LAND. 


OVE  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far-brought 
From  out  the  storied  Past,  anil  used 
Within  the  Present,  but  transfused 
Thro'  future  time  by  power  of  thought. 


^^CT^KT^Sfc,      True  love  turn'd  round  on  fixed   poles, 
15j>  Love,  that  endures  not  sordid  ends, 


For  English  natures.  IV 


i,  friends, 


Thy  brothers  and  immortal  souls. 

But  pamper  not  a  hasty  time, 
Nor  feed  with  crude  imaginings 
The  herd,  wild  hearts  and  feeble  wings, 

That  every  sophister  can  lime. 

Deliver  not  the  tasks  of  might 

To  weakness,  neither  hide  the  ray 
From  those,  not  blind,  who  wait  for  day, 

Tho'  sitting  girt  with  doubtful  light. 


Make  knowledge  circle  with  the  winds; 

But  let  her  herald,  Reverence,  fly 

Befoi  e  her  to  whatever  sky 
Bear  seed  of  men  and  growth  of  minds. 

Watch  what  main-currents  draw  the  years; 
Cut  prejudice  against  the  grain: 
But  gentle  words  are  always  gain: 

Regard  the  weakness  of  thy  peers: 


Nor  toil  for  title,  place,  or  touch, 

Of  pension,  neither  count  on  praise: 
It  grows  to  guerdon  after-days: 

Nor  deal  in  watch- words  overmuch: 


lo4  LOVE  THOU  THT  LAND. 

Not  clinging  to  some  ancient  saw ; 
Not  master'd  by  some  modern  term : 
Not  swift  nor  slow  to  change,  but  firm: 

And  in  its  season  bring  the  law ; 

That  from  Discussion's  lip  may  fall 

With  Life,  that,  working  strongly,  bind; 
Set  in  all  lights  by  many  minds, 

To  close  the  interests  of  all. 

For  Nature,  also,  cold  and  warm, 
And  moist  and  dry  devising  long, 
Thro'  many  agents  making  strong, 

Matures  the  individual  form. 


Meet  is  it  changes  should  control 
Our  being,  lest  we  rust  in  ease. 
We  all  are  chang'd  by  still  degrees, 

All  but  the  basis  of  the  soul. 


So  let  the  change  which  comes  be  free 
To  ingroove  itself  with  that  which  flies,. 
And  work,  a  joint  of  state,  that  plies 

Its  office,  moved  with  sympathy. 

A  saying,  hard  to  shape  in  act; 
For  all  the  past  of  Time  reveals 
A  bridal  dawn  of  thunder-peals, 

Wherever  Thought  hath  wedded  Fact. 

E'en  now  we  hear  with  inward  strife 
A  motion  toiling  in  the  gloom — 
The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 

Yearning  to  mix  himself  with  Life, 

A  slow-develop'd  strength  awaits 
Completion  in  a  painful  school; 
Phantoms  of  other  forms  of  rule, 

New  Majesties  of  mighty  States — 

The  warders  of  the  growing  hour, 
But  vague  in  vapor,  hard  to  mark; 


LOVE  THOU  THT  LAND.  165 

And  round  them  sea  and  air  are  dark 
With  great  contrivances  of  Power. 

Of  many  changes,  aptly  join'd, 

Is  bodied  forth  the  second  whole. 

Regard  gradation,  lest  the  soul 
Of  Discord  race  the  rising  wind; 

A  wind  to  puff  your  idol-fires, 

And  heap  their  ashes  on  the  head; 

To  shame  the  boast  so  often  made, 
That  we  are  wiser  than  our  sires. 

O  yet,  if  Nature's  evil  star 

Drive  men  in  manhood,  as  in  youth, 

To  follow  flying  steps  of  Truth 
Across  the  brazen  bridge  of  war — 

If  New  and  Old,  disastrous  feud, 

Must  ever  shock,  like  armed  foes, 

And  this  be  true,  till  time  shall  close, 
That  Principles  are  rain'd  in  blood; 

Not  yet  the  wise  of  heart  would  cease 

To  hold  his  hope  thro'  shame  and  guilt, 

But  with  his  hand  against  the  hilt, 
Would  pace  the  troubled  land,  like  Peace; 

Not  less,  tho'  dogs  of  Faction  bay, 

Would  serve  his  kind  in  deed  and  word, 

Certain,  if  knowledge  bring  the  sword, 
That  knowledge  takes  the  sword  away — 

Would  love  the  gleam  of  good  that  broke 

From  either  side,  nor  veil  his  eyes: 

And  if  some  dreadful  need  should  rise 
Would  strike,  and  firmly,  and  one  stroke 

To-morrow  yet  would  reap  to-day, 

As  we  bear  blossom  of  the  dead, 

Earn  well  the  thrifty  months,  nor  wed 
Raw  Haste,  half-sister  to  Delay. 


166 


A  FRAGMENT. 


A  FRAGMENT* 


HERE  is  the  Giant  of  the  Sun,  which  stood 
In  the  midnoon,  the  glory  of  old  Rhodes, 
A  perfect  Idol  with  profulgent  brows 
Far-sheening  down  the  purple  seas  to  those 
Who  sail'd  from  Mizraim  underneath  the  star 
Named  of  the  Dragon — and  between  whose  limbs 
Of  brassy  vastness  broad-blown  Argosies 
Drave  into  haven?     Yet  endure  unscath'd 
Of  changeful  cycles  the  great  Pyramids 
Broad-based  amid  the  fleeting  sands,  and  slop'd 
Into  the  slumberous  summer-noon;  but  where 
Mysterious  Egypt,  are  thine  obelisks 
Graven  with  gorgeous  emblems  undiscern'd? 
Thy  placid  Sphinxes  brooding  o'er  the  Nile? 
Thy  shadowing  Idols  in  the  solitudes, 
Awful  Memnonian  countenances  calm 
Looking  athwart  the  burning  flats,  far  off 
Seen  by  the  high-neck'd  camel  on  the  verge 
Journeying  southward?     Where  are  thy  monuments 
Piled  by  the  strong  and  sunborn  Anakim 
Over  their  crown'd  brethren  On  and  Oph? 
Thy  Memnon  when  his  peaceful  lips  are  kist 
With  earliest  rays,  that  from  his  mother's  eyes 
Flow  over  the  Arabian  bay,  no  more 
Breathes  low  into  the  charmed  ears  of  morn 
Clear  melody  flattering  the  crisped  Nile 
By  column'd  Thebes.     Old  Memphis  hath  gone  down: 
The  Pharaohs  are  no  more:  somewhere  in  death 
They  sleep  with  staring  eyes  and  gilded  lips, 
Arapped  round  with  spiced  cerements  in  old  grots 
Rock-hewn  and  sealed  forever. 


♦This  and  the  two  following  selections  are  from  the  Gem,  a  literary  annual  for  1831 


NO  MORE.-  ANA CREONTICS. 


167 


NO  MORE. 


Sad  No  More!  O  sweet  No  More! 

O  strange  No  More  ! 
By  a  mossed  brook-bank  on  a  stone 
I  smelt  a  wildweed  flower  alone: 
There  was  a  ringing  in  my  ears, 
And  both  my  eyes  gush'd  out  with  tears. 
Surely  all  pleasant  things  had  gone  before, 
Low-buried  fathom  deep  beneath  with  thee, 
No  More! 


•~»$=38Blig*t3<-. 


ANA  CREONTICS. 


ITH  roses  musky-breathed, 
And  drooping  daffodilly, 
And  silver-leaved  lily, 
And  ivy  darkly-wreath'd, 
wove  a  crown  before  her, 
For  I  love  her  so  dearly, 
A  garland  for  Lenora. 
With  a  silken  cord  I  bound  it. 
Lenora,  laughing  clearly 
A  light  and  thrilling  laughter, 
About  her  forehead  wound 
And  lov'd  me  ever  after. 


4 


^MjSjIED  71.  D.  1**^ 


!W' 


;v   v  t.».. ... 

..5?\.  ♦■♦'♦   4    4 


THE  HESPERIDES.  17i 


THE  HESPERIDES. 


"  Hesperus  and  his  daughters  three, 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree." 

— Comus. 


HE  North-wind  fall'n,  in  the  new-starred  night 
Zidonian  Hanno,  voyaging  beyond 
The  hoary  promontory  of  Soloe 
Past  Thymiaterion,  in  calmed  bays, 
Between  the  southern  and  the  western  Horn, 
Heard  neither  warbling  of  the  nightingale, 
Nor  melody  of  the  Libyan  lotus  flute 
Blown  seaward  from  the  shore;  but  from  a  slope 
That  ran  bloom-bright  into  the  Atlantic  blue, 
Beneath  a  highland  leaning  down  a  weight 
Of  cliffs,  and  zon'd  below  with  cedar  shade, 
Came  voices,  like  the  voices  in  a  dream, 
Continuous,  till  he  reach'd  the  outer  sea. 


SONG. 

The  golden  apple,  the  golden  apple,  the  hallow'd  fruit 

Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily, 

Singing  airily. 

Standing  about  the  charmed  root. 

Round  about  all  is  mute, 

As  the  snow-field  on  the  mountain-peaks, 

As  the  sand-field  at  the  mountain-foot. 

Crocodiles  in  briny  creeks 

Sleep  and  stir  not:   all  is  mute. 

If  ye  sing  not,  if  ye  make  false  measure, 

We  shall  lose  eternal  pleasure, 

Worth  eternal  want  of  rest. 

Laugh  not  loudly:  watch  the  treasure 

Of  the  wisdom  of  the  West. 

In  a  corner  wisdom  whispers.     Five  and  three 

(Let  it  not  be  preached  abroad)  make  an  awful  mystery. 

For  the  blossom  unto  threefold  music  bloweth; 

Evermore  it  is  born  anew; 


172  THE  HESPERIDES. 


And  the  sap  to  threefold  music  floweth, 

From  the  root 

Drawn  in  the  dark, 

Up  to  the  fruit, 

Creeping  under  the  fragrant  bark, 

Liquid  gold,  honeysweet,  thro'  and  thro'. 

Keen-eyed  sisters,  singing  airily, 

Looking  warily 

Every  way, 

Guard  the  apple  night  and  day, 

Lest  one  from  the  East  come  and  take  it  away. 

Father  Hesper,  Father  Hesper,  watch,  watch,  eve/  Jt*vf  ay^ 
Looking  under  silver  hair  with  a  silver  eye. 

Father,  twinkle  not  thy  steadfast  sight 

Kingdoms  lapse,  and  climates  change,  and  r**cei  die; 

Honor  comes  with  mystery; 

Hoarded  wisdom  brings  delight. 

Number,  tell  them  over  and  number 

How  many  the  mystic  fruit-tree  holds 

Lest  the  red-comb'd  dragon  slumber 

Rolled  together  in  purple  folds. 
Look  to  him,  father,  lest  he  wink,  and  the  golden  apple  be  stol'n  away, 
For  his  ancient   heart  is  drunk  with  overwatchings   raght  and  day, 

Round  about  the  hallow'd  fruit-tree  curl'd— 

Sing  away,  sing  aloud  evermore  in  the  wind,   without  stop., 

Lest  his  scaled  eyelid  drop, 

For  he  is  older  than  the  world. 

If  he  waken,  we  waken, 

Rapidly  levelling  eager  eyes. 

If  he  sleep,  we  sleep, 

Dropping  the  eyelid  over  the  eyes. 

If  the  golden  apple  be  taken, 

The  world  will  be  overwise. 

Five  links,  a  golden  chain,  are  we, 

Hesper,  the  dragon,  and  sisters  three, 

Bound  about  the  golden  tree. 


Father  Hesper,  Father  Hesper,  watch,  watch,  m  ght  and  day, 

Lest  the  old  wound  of  the  world  be  healed, 

The  glory  unsealed, 

The  golden  apple  stolen  away, 

And  the  ancient  secret  revealed 

Look  from  west  to  east  along: 


THE  HESPERIDES.  1*3 


Father,  old  Himala  weakens,  Caucasus  is  bold  and  strong. 

Wandering  waters  unto  wandering  waters  call. 

Let  them  clash  together,  foam  and  fall. 

Out  of  watch  ings,  out  of  wiles, 

Comes  the  bliss  of  secret  smiles. 

All  things  arc  hot  told  to  all. 

Half-round  the  mantling  night  is  drawn, 

Purple  fring'd  with  even  and  dawn, 

Hesper  hateth  Phosphor,  evening  hateth  morn. 

Every  flower  and  every  fruit  the  redolent  breath 

Of  this  warm  sea-wind  ripeneth, 

Arching  the  billow  in  his  sleep: 

But  the  land-wind  wandereth, 

Broken  by  the  highland-steep, 

Two  streams  upon  the  violet  deep; 

For  the  western  sun  and  the  western  star 

And  the  low  west-wind,  breathing  afar, 

The  end  of  day  and  beginning  of  night 

Make  the  apple  holy  and  bright ; 

Holy  and  bright,  round  and  full,  bright  and  blest, 

Mellow'd  in  a  land  of  rest; 

Watch  it  warily  day  and  night; 

All  good  things  are  in  the  west. 

Till  mid-noon  the  cool  east  light 

Is  shutout  by  the  tall  hill-brow; 

But  when  the  full-faced  sunset  ye.xowly 

Stavs  on  the  flowering  arch  of  the  bough, 

The  luscious  fruitage  clustereth  mellowly, 

Golden-kernell'd,  golden-cor'd, 

Sunset-ripen'd  above  on  the  tree. 

The  world  is  wasted  with  fire  and  sword, 

But  the  apple  of  gold  hangs  over  the  sea. 

Five  links,  a  golden  chain  are  we, 

Hesper,  the  dragon,  and  sisters  three. 

Daughters  three, 

Bound  about 

The  gnarled  bole  of  the  charmed  tree. 

The  golden  apple,  the  golden  apple,  the  hallow'd  fruit, 

Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily, 

Watch  ;t  warily, 

Singing  airily, 

Standing  about  the  charmed  root. 


174 


nOSALIND. 


ROSALIND. 


Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 
My  frolic  falcon  with  bright  eyes, 

Whose  free  delight,  from  any  height  of  rapid 
flight, 
Stoops  at  all  games  that  wing  the  skies, 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 
My  bright-eyed,  wild-eyed  falcon,  whither 
Careless  both  of  wind  and  weather, 
Whither  fly  ye,  what  game  spy  ye, 
Up  or  down  the  streaming  wind? 


The  quick  lark's  closest-caroll'd  strains, 
The  shadow  rushing  up  the  sea, 
L   The  lightning  flash  atween  the  rains, 
The  sunlight  driving  down  the  lea, 
The  leaping  stream,  the  very  wind 
That  will  not  stay,  upon  his  way, 
To  stoop  the  cowslip  to  the  plains, 
Is  not  so  clear  and  bold  and  free 
As  you,  my  falcon  Rosalind. 
You  care  not  for  another's  pains 
Because  you  are  the  soul  of  joy, 
Bright  metal  all  without  alloy. 
Life  shoots  and  glances  thro'  your  veins, 
And  flashes  off  a  thousand  ways 
Thro'  lips  and  eyes  in  subtle  rays. 
Your  hawk-eyes  are  keen  and  bright 
Keen  with  triumph,  watching  still 
To  pierce  me  thro'  with  pointed  light; 
But  oftentimes  they  flash  and  glitter 
Like  sunshine  on  a  dancing  rill, 
And  your  words  are  seeming-bitter, 
Sharp  and  few,  but  seeming-bitter, 
From  excess  of  swift  delight.* 


Come  down,  come  home,  my  Rosalind, 
My  gay  young  hawk,  my  Rosalind: 


ROSALIND.  175 


Too  long  you  keep  the  upper  skies; 

Too  long  you  roam  and  wheel  at  will: 

But  we  must  hood  your  random  eyes 

That  care  not  whom  they  kill, 

And  your  cheek,  whose  brilliant  hue 

Is  so  sparkling  fresh  to  view, 

Some  red  heath-flower  in  the  dew, 

Touch'd  with  sunrise.     We  must  bind 

And  keep  you  fast,  my  Rosalind, 

Fast,  fast,  my  wild-eyed  Rosalind, 

And  clip  your  wings,  and  make  you  love: 

When  we  have  lured  you  from  above, 

And  that  delight  of  frolic  flight,  by  day  or  night, 

From  north  to  south; 

Will  bind  you  fast  in  silken  cords, 

And  kiss  away  the  bitter  words 

From  off  your  rosy  mouth.* 


[♦Perhaps  the  following  lines  may  be  allowed  to  stand  as  a  separate  poem ;  originally  they 
;>art  of  the  text,  where  they  were  manifestly  superfluous. — Author's  Notk.] 

My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

Bold,  subtle,  careless  Rosalind, 

Is  one  of  those  who  know  nostrife 

Of  inward  woe  or  outward  fear; 

To  whom  the  slope  and  stream  of  Life 

The  life  before,  the  life  behind, 

In  the  ear,  from  far  and  near, 

Chimeth  musically  clear. 

My  falcon-hearted  Rosalind, 

Full-saiPd  before  a  vigorous  wind, 

Is  one  of  those  who  cannot  weep 

For  other's  woes,  but  overleap 

All  the  petty  shocks  and  fears 

That  trouble  life  in  early  years, 

With  a  flash  of  frolic  scorn 

And  keen  delight,  that  never  falls 

Away  from  freshness,  self-upborne 

With  such  gladness  as,  whenever 

The  fresh-flushing  springtime  calls 

To  the  flooding  waters  cool, 

Young  fishes,  on  an  April  morn, 

Up  and  down  a  rapid  river, 


176  TO 


Leap  the  little  waterfalls 

That  sing  into  the  pebbled  pool. 

My  happy  falcon,  Rosalind, 

Hath  daring  fancies  of  her  own, 

Fresh  as  the  dawn  before  the  day, 

Fresh  as  the  early  sea-smell  blown 

Through  vineyards  from  an  inland  bay. 

My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

Because  no  shadow  on  you  falls, 

Think  you  hearts  are  tennis  balls 

To  play  with,  wanton  Rosalind? 


£=3K3&*&3*" 


TO 

LL  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof, 
Nor  wander'd  into  other  ways; 
I  have  not  lack'd  thy  mild  reproof, 
Nor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise; 
But  life  is  full  of  weary  days. 

vShake  hands,  my  friend,  across  the  brink 
Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I  go. 

Shake  hands  once  more :  I  cannot  sink 
So  far — far  down,  but  I  shall  know 
Thy  voice,  and  answer  from  below. 

When,  in  the  darkness  over  me 

The  four  handed  mole  shall  scrape, 

Plant  thou  no  dusky  cypress-tree, 

Nor  wreathe  thy  cap  with  doleful  crape, 
But  pledge  me  in  the  flowing  grape. 


And  when  the  sappy  field  and  wood 

Grow  green  beneath  the  showery  gray, 

And  rugged  barks  begin  to  bud, 

And  thro'  damp  holts  new  flush'd  with  May, 
Ring  sudden  scritches  of  the  jay, 


"And  when  the  sappy  field  and  wood." 


KATE. 


177 


Then  let  wise  Nature  work  her  will, 
And  on  my  clay  the  darnels  grow. 

Come  only  when  the  days  are  still, 
And  at  my  headstone  whisper  low, 
And  tell  me  if  the  woodbines  blow, 

If  thou  art  blest,  my  mother's  smile 
Undimm'd,  if  bees  are  on  the  wing: 

Then  cease,  my  friend,  a  little  while, 
That  I  may  hear  the  throstle  sing 
His  bridal  song,  the  boast  of  spring. 

Sweet  as  the  noise  in  parched  plains 
Of  bubbling  wells  that  fret  the  stones 

(If  any  sense  in  me  remains), 

Thy  words  will  be;  thy  cheerful  tones 
As  welcome  to  my  crumbling  bones. 


:-::■:;•::■::-::■.:•::■:>::•::•:>::•::::■::■::•::•::•::  ■::  :>:-::::  ::::■::■::■::■::■::• 


12 


KNOW  her  by  her  angry  air, 
Her  bright  black  eyes,  her  bright  black  hair, 
Her  rapid  laughters,  wild  and  shrill, 
Aa  laughters  of  the  woodpecker 

From  the  bosom  of  a  hill. 
'Tis  Kate — she  sayeth  what  she  will. 
For  Kate  hath  an  unbridl'd  tongue, 
Clear  as  the  twanging  of  a  harp, 

Her  heart  is  like  a  throbbing  star. 
Kate  hath  a  spirit  ever  strung 

Like  a  new  bow,  and  bright  and  sharp 
As  edges  of  the  cimeter. 
Whence  shall  she  take  a  fitting  mate? 

For  Kate  no  common  love  will  feel; 
My  woman-soldier,  gallant  Kate, 
As  pure  and  true  as  blades  of  steel. 


ITS 


SONNETS. 


Kate  saith  "  the  world  is  void  of  might." 
Kate  saith  "  the  men  are  gilded  flies." 
Kate  snaps  her  fingers  at  my  vows; 
Kate  will  not  hear  of  lovers'  sighs. 
I  would  I  were  an  armed  knight, 
Far-fam'd  for  well-won  enterprise, 

And  wearing  on  my  swarthy  brows 
The  garland  of  new-wreath\l  emprise: 

For  in  a  moment  I  would  pierce 
The  blackest  files  of  clanging  fight, 
And  strongly  strike  to  left  and  right, 
In  dreaming  of  my  lady's  eyes. 

O!  Kate  loves  well  the  bold  and  fierce; 
But  none  are  bold  enough  for  Kate, 
She  cannot  find  a  fitting  mate. 


'-£3&^lBfcC=$<- 


SONNETS. 


I. 


INE  be  the  strength  of  spirit  full  and  free, 

Like  some  broad  river  rushing  down  alone, 

With  the  selfsame  impulse  wherewith  he  was  thrown 

From  his  loud  fount  upon  the  echoing  lea: — 

Which  with  increasing  might  doth  forward  flee 

By  town,  and  tower,  and  hill,  and  cape,  and  isle, 

And  in  the  middle  of  the  green  salt  sea 

Keeps  his  blue  waters  fresh  for  many  a  mile. 

Mine  be  the  power  which  ever  to  its  sway 

Will  win  the  wise  at  once,  and  by  degrees 

May  into  uncongenial  spirits  flow ; 

Ev'n  as  the  great  gulf-stream  of  Florida 

Floats  far  away  into  the  northern  seas 

The  lavish  growths  of  southern  Mexico, 


SONNETS.  179 


II. 


Who  can  say 
Why  T«.-day 
To-morrow  will  be  yesterday? 

Who  can  tell 

Why  to  smell 

The  violet  recalls  the   dewy  prime 

Of  youth  and  buried  time? 

The  cause  is  nowhere  found  in  rhyme. 


III. 
TO  CHRISTOPHER  NORTH. 

You  did  late   review  my  lavs, 

Crusty  Christopher; 
You  did  mingle  blame  and  praise, 

Rusty  Christopher. 
When  I  learnt  from  whom  it  came 
I  forgave  you  all  the  blame, 

Musty  Christopher; 
I  could  not  forgive  the  praise 

Fusty  Christopher. 


IV. 


Caress'd  or  chidden  by  the  slender  hand 

And  singing  airy  trifles  this  or  that, 
Light  Hope  at  Beauty's  call  would  perch  and  stand, 

And  run  thro1  every  change  of  sharp  or  flat; 
And  Fancy  came  and  at  her  pillow  sat, 
When  Sleep  had  bound  her  in  his  rosy  band, 

And  chas'd  away  the  still-recurring  gnat, 
And  woke  her  with  a  lay  from  fairy  land. 
But  now  they  live  with  Beauty  less  and  Less, 
For  Hope  is  other  Hope  and  wanders  for, 

Nor  cares  to  li»p  in  Love's  delicious  creeds; 
And  Fancy  watches  in  the  wilderness, 
Poor  Fancy  sadder  than  a  single  star, 
That  sets  at  twilight  in  a  land  of  reeds. 


180  SONNETS. 


V. 


POLAND.  * 


Blow  ye  the  trumpet,  gather  from  afar 
The  hosts  to  battle:  be  not  bought  and  sold. 
Arise,  brave  Poles,  the  boldest  of  the  bold; 
Break  thro'  your  iron  shackles — fling  them  far. 
O  for  those  days  of  Piast,  ere  the  Czar 
Grew  to  his  strength  among  his  deserts  cold; 
When  even  to  Moscow's  cupolas  were  rolled 
The  growing  murmurs  of  the  Polish  war! 
Now  must  your  noble  anger  blaze  out  more 
Than  when  from  Sobieski,  clan  by  clan, 
The  Moslem  myriads  fell,  and  fled  before — 
Than  when  Zamoysky  smote  the  Tartar  Khan; 
Than  earlier,  when  on  the  Baltic  shore 
Boleslas  drove  the  Pomeranian. 


VI. 


How  long,  O  God,  shall  men  be  ridden  down, 
And  trampled  under  by  the  last  and  least 
Of  men?     The  heart  of  Poland  hath  not  ceas'd 
To  quiver,  though  her  sacred  blood  doth  drown 
The  fields;  and  out  of  every  smouldering  town 
Cries  to  Thee,  lest  brute  Power  be  increas'd, 
Till  that  o'ergrown  Barbarian  in  the  East 
Transgress  his  ample  bound  to  some  new  crown: — 
Cries  to  Thee,  "  Lord,  how  long  shall  these  things  be? 
How  long  shall  the  icy-hearted  Muscovite 
Oppress  the  region?  "     Us,  O  Just  and  Good, 
Forgive,  who  smil'd  when  she  was  torn  in  three; 
Us,  who  stand  now,  when  we  should  aid  the  right — 
A  matter  to  be  wept  with  tears  of  blood ! 

VII. 

Wan  Sculptor  weepest  thou  to  take  the  cast 
Of  those  dead  lineaments  that  near  thee  lie? 
O  sorrowest  thou,  pale  Painter,  for  the  past, 

*  Written  on  hearing-  of  the  outbreak  of  the  Polish  insurrection. 


SONNETS.  181 


In  painting  some  dead  friend  from  memory? 
Weep  on:  beyond  his  object  Love  can  last: 
His  object  lives:  more  cause  to  weep  have  I: 
My  tears,  no  tears  of  love,  are  flowing  fast, 

No  tears  of  love,  but  tears  that  Love  can  die. 
I  pledge  her  not  in  any  cheerful  cup, 

Nor  care  to  sit  beside  her  where  she  sits — 
Ah  pity — hint  it  not  in  human  tones. 
But  breathe  it  into  earth  and  close  it  up 

With  secret  death  forever,  in  the  pits 
Which  some  green  Christmas  crams  with  weary  bones. 


VIII. 


Me  my  own  fate  to  lasting  sorrow  doometh : 

Thy  woes  are  birds  of  passage,  transitory: 

Thy  spirit,  circl'd  with  a  living  glory, 
In  summer  still  a  summer  joy  resumeth, 
Alone  my  hopeless  melancholy  gloometh. 

Like  a  lone  cypress,  through  the  twilight  hoary, 
From  an  old  garden,  where  no  flower  bloometh, 

One  cypress  on  an  island  promontory. 
But  yet  my  lonely  spirit  follows  thine, 

As  round  the  rolling  earth  night  follows  day: 
But  yet  thy  lights  on  my  horizon  shine 

Into  my  night,  when  thou  art  far  away. 
I  am  so  dark,  alas!  and  thou  so  bright 

When  we  two  meet  there's  never  perfect  light. 


IX.* 

Check  every  outflash,  every  ruder  sally 

Of  thought  and  speech;  speak  low  and  give  up  wholly 
Thy  spirit  to  mild-minded  melancholy; 
This  is  the  place.     Thro'  yonder  poplar  valley 

Below,  the  blue-green  river  windeth  slowly ; 
But  in  the  middle  of  the  sombre  valley 
The  crisped  waters  whisper  musically, 

And  all  the  haunted  place  is  dark  and  holy. 
The  nightingale,  with  long  and  low  preamble, 

Warbled  from  yonder  knoll  of  solemn  larches, 

*  From  Friendship's  Offering,  1833. 


182  SONNETS. 


And  in  and  out  the  woodbine's  flowery  arches 
The  summer  midges  wove  their  wanton  gambol. 

And  all  the  white-stemm'd  pine-wood  slept  above- 
When  in  this  valley  first  I  told  my  love. 


X. 


ALEXANDER. 


Warrior  of  God,  whose  strong  right  arm  debased 
The  throne  of  Persia,  when  her  Satrap  bled 

At  Issus  by  the  Syrian  gates,  or  fled 
Beyond  the  Memmian  naphtha-pits,  disgraced 
Forever — thee  (thy  pathway  sand-erased) 

Gliding  with  equal  crowns  two  serpents  led 

Joyful  to  that  palm-planted  fountain-fed 
Ammonian  Oasis  in  the  waste. 
There  in  a  silent  shade  of  laurel  brown 
Apart  the  Chamian  Oracle  divine 

Shelter'd  his  unapproach'd  mysteries: 
High  things  were  spoken  there,  unhanded  down; 

Only  they  saw  thee  from  the  secret  shrine 
Returning  with  hot  cheek  and   kindled  eyes. 


XI. 


BONAPARTE. 

He   thought  to  quell  the  stubborn  hearts  of  oak, 

Madman! — to  chain  with  chains,  and  bind  with  bands 

That  island  queen  that  sways  the  floods  and  lands 

From  Ind  to  Ind,  but  in  fair  daylight  woke, 

When  from  her  wooden  walls,  lit  by  sure  hands, 

With  thunders,  and  with  lightnings,  and  with  smoke 

Peal  after  peal  the  British  battle  broke, 

Lulling  the  brine  against  the  Coptic  sands. 

We  taught  him  lowlier  -moods,  when  Elsinore 

Heard  the  war  moan  along  the  distant  sea, 

Rocking  with  shatter'd  spars,  with  sudden  fires 

Flamed  over:  at  Trafalgar  yet  once  more 

We  taught  him:  late  he  learn'd  humility 

Perforce,  like  those  whom  Gideon  school'd  with  briers. 


SONNETS.  1^3 


XII. 


TO 


As  when  with  downcast  eyes  we  muse  and  brood,. 
And  ebb  into  a  former  life,  or  seem 
To  lapse  tar  hack  in  a  confused  dream 

To  states  of  mystical  similitude; 

If  one  but  upeaks  or  hems  or  stirs  his  chair, 

Ever  the-  wonder  waxeth  more  and  more, 

So  that  we  Bay,  M  All  this  hath  beenbefore, 

All  this  hath  been,  I  know   not  when  or  where." 

So,  friend,  when  first  I  look'd  upon  your  face, 

Our  thought  gave  answer,  each  to  each,  so  true — 

Opposed  mirrors,  each  reflecting  each — 

Alt  ho'  I  knew  not  in  what  time  or  place, 

Methought  that   1  had   often    met  with  you, 

And  each  had  liv'd  in  th'  other's  mind  and  speech. 


XIII. 

The  form,  the  form  alone  is  eloquent! 

A  nobler  yearning  never  broke  her  rest 

Than  but  to  dance  and  sing,  be  gaily  drest, 
And  win  all  eyes  with  all  accomplishment: 
Yet  in  the  whirling  dances  as  we  went, 
My  fancy  made  me  for  a  moment  blest 

To  find  my  heart  so  near  the  beauteous  breast 
That  once  had  power  to  rob  it  of  content. 
A  moment  came  the  tenderness  of  tears, 

The  phantom  of  a  wish  that  once  could  move, 
A  ghost  of  passion  that  no  smiles  restore — 

For  ah!  the  slight  coquette,  she  cannot  love, 
And  if  you  kissM  her  feel  ;t  thousand  years, 

She  still  would  take  the  praise,  and  care  no  more. 

XIV. 

O  bridesmaid,  ere  the  happy  knot  was  tied, 
Thine  eyes  so  wept  that  they  could  hardly  see; 
Thy  sister  smiled  and  said  "  No  tears  for  me! 

A  happy  bridesmaid  makes  a  happy  bride." 


i&4  SONNETS. 


And  then,  the  couple  standing  side  by  side, 

Love  lighted  down  between  them  full  of  glee, 
And  over  his  left  shoulder  laugh'd  at  thee, 
"  O  happy  bridesmaid,  make  a  happy  bride." 
And  all  at  once  a  pleasant  truth  I  learn'd, 

For  while  the  tender  service  made  thee  weep, 
I  loved  thee  for  the  tear  thou  couldst  not  hide, 
And  prest  thy  hand,  and  knew  the  press  returned, 

And  thought,  "  My  life  is  sick  of  single  sleep: 
O  happy  bridesmaid,  make  a  happy  bride! " 


XV. 


0  Beauty,  passing  beauty!  sweetest  sweet! 
How  canst  thou  let  me  waste  my  youth  in  sighs? 

1  only  ask  to  sit  beside  thy  feet, 

Thou  knowest  I  dare  not  look  into  thine  eyes. 
Might  I  but  kiss  thy  hand!     I  dare  not  fold 

My  arms  about  thee — scarcely  dare  to  speak. 
And  nothing  seems  to  me  so  wild  and  bold, 

As  with  one  kiss  to  touch  thy  blessed  cheek. 
Methinks  if  I  should  kiss  thee,  no  control 

Within  the  thrilling  brain  could  keep  afloat 
The  subtle  spirit.     Even  while  I  spoke 

The  bare  word  kiss  hath  made  my  inner  soul 
To  tremble  like  a  lute-string,  ere  a  note 

Hath  melted  in  the  silence  that  it  broke. 

XVI. 

But  were  I  lov'd,  as  I  desire  to  be, 

What  is  there  in  the  great  sphere  of  the  earth, 

And  range  of  evil  between  death  and  birth, 

That  I  should  fear, — if  I  were  lov'd  by  thee? 

All  the  inner,  all  the  outer  world  of  pain 

Clear  Love  would  pierce  and  cleave,  if  thou  wert  mine, 

As  I  have  heard  that,  somewhere  in  the  main, 

Fresh-water  springs  come  up  through  bitter  brine. 

'Twere  joy,  not  fear,  clasp'd  hand-in-hand  with  thee, 

To  wait  for  death — mute — careless  of  all  ills, 

Apart  upon  a  mountain,  through  the  surge 

Of  some  new  deluge  from  a  thousand  hills 

Flung  leagues  of  roaring  foam  into  the  gorge 

Below  us,  as  far  on  as  eye  could  see. 


See  i>age  182. 


^hhm  wris 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


//>  ///  ► 


P^J^ED  71-  D-  *** 


THE  EPIC. 


187 


THE  EPIC, 


T  Francis  Allen's  on  the  Christmas-eve, — 
The  game  of  forfeits  done — the  girls  all  kiss'd 
Beneath  the  sacred  bush  and  past  away — 
The  parson  Holmes,  the  poet  Everard  Hall, 
The  host,  and  I  sat  round  the  wassail-bowl, 
Then  half-way  ebb'd :  and  there  we  held  a  talk, 
How  all  the  old  honor  had  from  Christmas  gone, 
Or  gone,  or  dwindled  down  to  some  odd  games 
In  some  odd  nooks  like  this;  till  I,  tired  out 
With  cutting  eights  that  day  upon  the  pond, 
Where,  three  times  slipping  from  the  outer  edge, 
I  bump'd  the  ice  into  three  several  stars, 
Fell  in  a  doze;  and  half-awake  I  heard 
The  parson  taking  wide  and  wider  sweeps, 
Now  harping  on  the  church-commissioners, 
Now  hawking  at  Geology  and  schism; 
Until  I  woke,  and  found  him  settled  down 
Upon  the  general  decay  of  faith 
Right  thro'  the  world,  "  at  home  was  little  left, 
And  none  abroad :  there  was  no  anchor,  none, 
To  hold  by."     Francis,  laughing,  clapt  his  hand 
On  Everard's  shoulder,  with  "  I  hold  by  him." 
"  And  I,"  quoth  Everard,  *  by  the  wassail-bowl." 
"  Why  yes,"  I  said,  "  we  knew  your  gift  that  way 
At  college :  but  another  which  you  had — 
I  mean  of  verse  (for  so  we  held  it  then,) 

What  came  of  that? "     a  You  know,"  said  Frank,  "  he  burnt 
His  epic,  his  King  Arthur,  some  twelve  books  " — 
And  then  to  me  demanding  why,  "  O,  sir, 
He  thought  that  nothing  new  was  said,  or  else 
Something  so  said  'twas  nothing — that  a  truth 
Looks  freshest  in  the  fashion  of  the  day: 
God  knows:  he  has  a  mint  of  reasons:  ask. 
It  pleased  me  well  enough."     "  Nay,  nay,"  said  Hall, 
"  Why  take  the  style  of  those  heroic  times? 
For  nature  brings  not  back  the  Mastodon, 
Nor  we  those  times;  and  why  should  any  man 
Remodel  models?  these  twelve  books  of  mine 


188 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 


Were  faint' Homeric  echoes,  nothing-worth, 

Mere  chaff  and  draff,  much  better  burnt."     "  But  f ," 

Said  Francis,  "  pick'd  the  eleventh  from  this  hearth, 

And  have  it:  keep  a  thing,  its  use  will  come. 

I  hoard  it  as  a  sugar-plum  for  Holmes." 

He  laugh'd,  and  I,  though  sleepy,  like  a  horse 

That  hears  the  corn-bin  open,  prick'd  my  ears; 

For  I  remember'd  Everard's  college  fame 

When  we  were  Freshmen:   then  at  my  request 

He  brought  it;  and  the  poet  little  urged, 

But  with  some  prelude  of  disparagement, 

Read,  mouthing  out  his  hollow  oes  and  aes, 

Deep-chested  music,  and  to  this  result. 


MORTE  D  ARTHUR. 


O  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  rell'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea; 
Until  King  Arthui's  table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fall'n  in  Lyonness  about  their  Lord, 
King  Arthur:  then,  because  his  wound  was  deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  fulL 


Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  The  secret  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep — the  men  I  loved.     I  think  that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more — but  let  what  will  be,  be, 


MORTE  D  ARTHUR. 


1S9 


I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride':  for  thou  rememb'rest  how 


In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 

Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 

Holding  the  sword — and  how  I  rowed  across 

And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king: 

And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told, 

In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known: 

But  now  delay  not:  take  Excalibur, 

And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle-mere: 

Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring  me  word. 


190  MORTE  U ARTHUR. 


To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus, 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  nest  will  all  perform  at  full, 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word." 
So  saying,  from  the  ruined  shrine  he  stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.     He,  stepping  down 
By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 
There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon, 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  clorid,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt: 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  studs, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewelry.     He  gazed  so  long, 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind, 
In  act  to  throw :  but  at  the  last  it  seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags, 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  king. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere : 
"Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission  which  I  gave? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen   or  what  hast  heard  ?  " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pale: 
"  Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy  name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight: 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 


"  But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Cloth'd  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him." 


MORTE  D>  ARTHUR.  191 


As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 

I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere, 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix'd  in  thought; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chas'd,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud : 

"  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth, 
Which  might  have  pleas'd  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  done? 
What  harm,  undone?  deep  harm  to  disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  command 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself  ? 
The  king  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt?  but  were  this  kept, 
Stor'd  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms, 
Saying,  •  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame  were  lost." 
So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily: 
u  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast  heard?  n 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 
To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in  wrath: 
u  Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 


192  MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 


Unknightly,  traitor-hearted !  Woe  is  me ! 

Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 

Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 

That  bow'd  the  will.     I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 

For  thou,  the  latest  left  of  all  my  knights, 

In  wh'om  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 

Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt; 

Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 

Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 

Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 

And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence* 

But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 

I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plung'd 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd  the  sword, 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.     The  great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirled  in  an  arch, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea.       » 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur: 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Cloth'd  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  king. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker  breath: 
"  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out:  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard  or  seen? " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  Sir  King,  I  clos'd  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Cloth'd  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere." 


MORTE  D  ARTHUR.  193 


And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing  hard: 
"  My  end  draws  nigh,  'tis  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears, 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words, 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk'd,  King  Arthur  panted  hard, 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sigh'd  the  King, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear  "  Quick,  quick! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge, 
Cloth'd  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he  walk'd, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.     His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him,  as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo!  the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them;  and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms 
Black-stol'd,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream — by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold — and  from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  ?hiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wink,  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 
13 


194 


MORTE  &  ARTHUR. 


Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "  Place  me  in  the  barge," 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those  three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King,  and  wept. 
But  she  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque,  and  chafed  his  hands, 


And  calPd  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  .brow,  ' 
Striped  with  dark  blood :  for  all  his  face  was  white 
And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither'd  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east; 


MORTE  & ARTHUR.  105 


And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd  with  drops 

Of  onset;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls — 

That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 

High  from  the  dais-throne — were  parch'd  with  dust; 

Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 

Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fring'd  his  lips. 

So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  King; 

Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest, 

From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 

Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charg'd 

Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  Kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  hold  Sir  Bedivere, 
"  Ah!  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  hath  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  round  table  is  dissolv'd 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds." 

And  slowly  answer'd  Arthur  from  the  barge; 
"  The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 
Comfort  thyself:  what  comfort  is  in  me? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure!  but  thou, 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray  for  my  soul,  more  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore,  let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them  friend? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 
But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest — if  indeed  I  go — 


196  *  MORTE  D 'ARTHUR. 


(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard-lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  summer  sea, 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound." 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted  swan- 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 


Here  ended  Hall,  and  our  last  light,  that  long 
Had  wink'd  and  threaten'd  darkness,  flared  and  fell; 
At  which  the  Parson,  sent  to  sleep  with  sound, 
And  waked  with  silence,  grunted  "  Good ! "  but  we 
Sat  rapt:  it  was  the  tone  with  which  he  read — 
Perhaps  some  modern  touches  here  and  there 
Redeem'd  it  from  the  charge  of  nothingness — 
Or  else  we  lov'd  the  man,  and  priz'd  his  work; 
I  know  not:  but  we  sitting,  as  I  said, 
The  cock  crew  loud ;  as  at  that  time  of  year 
The  lusty  bird  takes  every  hour  for  dawn : 
Then  Francis,  muttering,  like  a  man  ill-used, 
"  There  now — that's  nothing!"  drew  a  little  back* 
And  drove  his  heel  into  the  smoulder'd  log, 
That  sent  a  blast  of  sparkles  up  the  flue: 
And  so  to  bed ;  where  yet  in  sleep  I  seem'd 
To  sail  with  Arthur  under  looming  shores, 
Point  after  point;  till  on  to  dawn,  when  dreams 
Begin  to  feel  the  truth  and  stir  of  day, 
To  me,  methought,  who  waited  with  a  crowd, 
There  came  a  bark  that,  blowing  forward,  bore 
King  Arthur,  like  a  modern  gentleman 
Of  stateliest  port;  and  all  the  people  cried, 
"Arthur  is  come  again :  he  cannot  die." 


THE  GARDEXERS  DAl'i.IITER. 


197 


Then  those  that  stood  upon  the  hills  behind 

Repeated     "Come  again,  and  thrice  as  fair;' 


And,  further  inland. 


:hoed- 


Come 

With  all  good  things,  and  war  shall  be  no  more." 
At  this  a  hundred  bells  fyegan  to  peal, 
That  with  the  sound  I  woke,  and  heard  indeed 
The  clear  church-bells  ring  in  the  Christmas  morn. 


rj-» IW.  VMt»  JO*.*— ^ 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER; 


OR,  THE  PICTURES. 


HIS  morning  is  the  morning  of  the  day, 
When  I  and  Eustace  from  the  city  went 
To  see  the  Gardener's  Daughter;  I  and  he, 
Brothers  in  Art;  a  friendship  so  complete 
Portion'd  in  halves  between  us,  that  we  grew 
The  fable  of  the  city  where  we  dwelt. 

My  Eustace  might  have  sat  for  Hercules; 
So  muscular  he  spread,  so  broad  of  breast. 
He,  by  some  law  that  holds  in  love,  and  draws 
The  greater  to  the  lesser,  long  desir'd 
A  certain  miracle  of  symmetry, 
A  miniature  of  loveliness,  all  grace 
Summ'd  up  and  closed  in  little; — Juliet,  she 
So  light  of  foot,  so  light  of  spirit — oh,  she 
To  me  myself,  for  some  three  careless  moons, 
The  summer  pilot  of  an  empty  heart 
Unto  the  shores  of  nothing!     Know  you  not 
Such  touches  are  but  embassies  of  love, 
To  tamper  with  the  feelings,  ere  he  found 
Empire  for  life?  but  Eustace  painted  her, 
And  said  to  me,  she  sitting  with  us  then, 
"When  \v\\\you  paint  like  this?"  and  I  replied, 
(My  words  were  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest,) 
"  'Tis  not  your  work,  but  Love's.     Love,  unperceiv'd, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all, 


198  THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER; 

Came,  drew  your  pencil  from  you,  made  those  eyes 
Darker  than  darkest  pansies,  and  that  hair 
More  black  than  ash-buds  in  the  front  of  March." 
And  Juliet  answer'd  laughing,  "  Go  and  see 
The  Gardener's  daughter:  trust  me,  after  that, 
You  scarce  can  fail  to  match  his  masterpiece." 
And  up  we  rose,  and  on  the  spur  we  went. 

Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor  quite 
Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that  I  love. 
News  from  the  humming  city  comes  to  it 
In  sound  of  funeral  or  of  marriage  bells; 
And,  sitting  muffled  in  dark  leaves,  you  hear 
The  windy  clanging  of  the  minster  clock; 
Although  between  it  and  the  garden  lies 
A  league  of  grass,  wash'd  by  a  slow,  broad  stream. 
That,  stirr'd  with  languid  pulses  of  the  oar, 
Waves  all  its  lazy  lilies,  and  creeps  on, 
Barge-laden,  to  three  arches  of  a  briden 
Crown'd  with  the  minster  towers. 

The  fields  between 
Are  dewy-fresh,  brows'd  by  deep-udder'd  kine, 
And  all  about  the  large  lime  feathers  low, 
The  lime  a  summer  home  of  murmurous  wings. 

In  that  still  place  she,  hoarded  in  herself, 
Grew,  seldom  seen :  not  less  among  us  lived 
Her  fame  from  lip  to  lip.      Who  had  not  heard 
Of  Rose,  the  Gardener's  daughter?     Where  was  he 
So  blunt  in  memory,  so  old  at  heart, 
At  such  a  distance  from  his  youth  in  grief, 
That,  having  seen,  forgot?     The  common  mouth 
So  gross  to  express  delight,  in  praise  of  her 
Grew  oratory.     Such  a  lord  is  Love, 
And  Beauty  such  a  mistress  of  the  world. 

And  if  I  said  that  Fancy,  led  by  Love, 
Would  play  with  flying  forms  and  images, 
Yet  this  is  also  true,  that,  long  before 
I  look'd  upon  her,  when  I  heard  her  name 
My  heart  was  like  a  prophet  to  my  heart 
And  told  me  I  should  love.     A  crowd  of  hopes 
That  sought  to  show  themselves  like  winged  seeds, 
Born  out  of  everything  I  heard  and  saw, 


OR,  THE  PICTURES.  1M 


Flutter'd  about  my  senses  and  my  soul; 
And  vague  desires,  like  fitful  blasts  of  balm, 
To  one  that  travels  quickly,  made  the  air 
Of  Life  delicious,  and   all  kinds  of  thought, 

That  verg'd  upon  them,  sweeter  than  the  dream 

Dream'd  by  a  happy  man,  when  the  dark  East, 
Unseen,  is  brightening  to  his  bridal  morn. 

And  sure  this  orbit  of  the  memory  folds 
Forever  in  itself  the  day  we  went 
To  see  her.     All  the  land   in  flowery  squares 
Beneath  a  broad  and  equal-blowing  wind, 
Smelt  of  the  coming  summer,  as  one  large  clout! 
Drew  downward;  but  all  else  of  Heaven  was  pure 
Up  to  the  sun,  and  May  from  verge  to  verge, 
And  May  with  me  from  head  to  heel.      And   now, 
As  tho'  'twere  yesterday,  as  tho'  it  were 
The  hour  just  flown,  that  morn  with  all  its  sound, 
(For  those  old  Mays  had  thrice  the  life  of  these-,) 
Rings  in  mine  ears.     The  steer  forgot  to  graze, 
And,  where  the  hedgerow  cuts  the  pathway,  stood, 
Leaning  his  horns  into  the  neighbor  field, 
And  lowing  to  his  ill  lows.     From  the  woods 
Came  voices  of  the  well-contented  doves. 
The  lark  could  scarce  get  out  his  notes  for  joy 
But  shook  his  song  together  as  he  near'd 
His  happy  home,  the  ground.     To  left  and  right, 
The  cuckoo  told  his  name  to  all  the   hills; 
The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm; 
The  redcap  whistled;  and  the  nightingale 
Sang  loud,  as  tho'  he  were  the  bird  of  day. 

And  Eustace  turn'd,  and  smiling  said  to  me, 
"Hear  how  the  bushes  echo!  by  my  life, 
These  birds  have  joyful  thoughts.     Think  you  they  sing 
Like  poets,  from  the  vanity  of  song? 
Or  have  they  any  sense  of  why  they  sing? 
And  would  they  praise  the  heavens  for  what  they  have?" 
And  I  made  answer,  "  Were  there  nothing  else 
For  which  to  praise  the  heavens  but  only  love, 
That  only  love  were  cause  enough  for  praise." 

Lightly  he  laugh'd,  as  one  that  read  my  thought, 
And  on  we  went;  but  ere  an  hour  had  pass'd, 


200 


THE  GARDENERS  DAUGHTER; 


We  reach'd  a  meadow  slanting  to  the  North; 
Down  which  a  well-worn  pathway  courted  us 
To  one  green  wicket  in  a  privet  hedge; 
This,  yielding,  gave  into  a  grassy  walk 
Thro'  crowded  lilac-ambush  trimly  pruned; 
And  one  warm  gust,  full-fed  with  perfume,  blew 
Beyond  us,  as  we  enter'd  in  the  cool. 
The  garden  stretches  southward.     In  the  midst 
A  cedar  spread  his  dark-green  layers  of  shade. 
The  garden-glasses  shone,  and  momently 
The  twinkling  laurel  scatter'd  silver  lights. 

"  Eustace,"  I  said,  "  this  wonder  keeps  the  house." 
He  nodded,  but  a  moment  afterwards 
He  cried,  "  Look!  look!"     Before  he  ceased  I  turn'd, 
And,  ere  a  star  can  wink,  beheld  her  there. 


For  up  the  porch  there  grew  an  Eastern  rose, 
That,  flowering  high,  the  last  night's  gale  had  caught, 
And  blown  across  the  walk.     One  arm  aloft — 
Gown'd  in  pure  white,  that  fitted  to  the  shape — 


"Ah,  one  rose, 
One  rose,  but  one,  fry  those  fair  fingers  ciuTd." 


OR,  THE  PICTURES.  201 


Holding  the  bush,  tOf  fix  it  back,  she  stood. 

A  single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown  hair 

Pour'd  on  one  side :  the  shadow  of  the  flowers 

Stole  all  the  golden  gloss,  and,  wavering 

Lovingly  lower,  trembled  on  her  waist — 

Ah!  happy  shade — and  still  went  wavering  down, 

But,  ere  it  touch'd  a  foot,  that  might  have  danced 

The  greensward  into  greener  circles,  dipt, 

And  mix'd  with  shadows  of  the  common  ground! 

But  the  full  day  dwelt  on  her  brows,  and  sunn'd 

Her  violet  eyes,  and  all  her  Hebe-bloom, 

And  doubled  his  own  warmth  against  her  lips, 

And  on  the  bounteous  wave  of  such  a  breast 

As  never  pencil  drew.     Half  light,  half  shade, 

She  stood,  a  sight  to  make  an  old  man  young. 

So  rapt,  we  nearM  the  house;  but  she,  a  Rose 
/h  roses,  mingled  with  her  fragrant  toil, 
Nor  heard  us  come,  nor  from  her  tendance  turn'd 
Into  the  world  without;  till  close  at  hand, 
And  almost  ere  I  knew  mine  own  intent, 
This  murmur  broke  the  stillness  of  that  air 
Which  brooded  round  about  her: 

"Ah,  one  rose, 
One  rose,  but  one,  by  those  fair  fingers  cull'd, 
Were  worth  a  hundred  kisses  press'd  on  lips 
Less  exquisite  than  thine." 

She  look'd :  but  all 
Suffus'd  with  blushes — neither  self-possess'd 
Nor  startled,  but  betwixt  this  mood  and  that, 
Divided  in  a  graceful  quiet — paused, 
And  dropt  the  branch  she  held,  and  turning,  wound 
Her  looser  hair  in  braid,  and  stirred  her  lips 
For  some  sweet  answer,  tho'  no  answer  came, 
Nor  yet  refused  the  rose,  but  granted  it, 
And  moved  away,  and  left  me,  statue-like, 
In  act  to  render  thanks. 

I,  that  whole  day, 
Saw  her  no  more,  altho'  I  linger'd  there 
Till  every  daisy  slept,  and  Love's  white  star 
BeamM  thro'  the  thicken'd  cedar  in  the  dusk. 

So  home  we  went,  and  all  the  livelong  way 
With  solemn  gibe  did  Eustace  banter  me. 
"  Now,"  said  he,  "will  you  climb  the  top  of  Art. 


202  THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER; 

You  cannot  fail  but  work  in  hues  to  dim 
The  Titianic  Flora.     Will  you  match 
My  Juliet?  you,  not  you, — the  Master,  Love, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all." 

So  home  I  went,  but  could  not  sleep  for  joy, 
Reading  her  perfect  features  in  the  gloom, 
Kissing  the  rose  she  gave  me  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  shaping  faithful  record  of  the  glance 
That  grac'd  the  giving — such  a  noise  of  life 
Swarm'd  in  the  golden  present,  such  a  voice 
Call'd  to  me  from  the  years  to  come,  and  such 
A  length  of  bright  horizon  rimm'd  the  dark. 
And  all  that  night  I  heard  the  watchmen  peal 
The  sliding  season:  all  that  night  I  heard 
The  heavy  clocks  knolling  the  drowsy  hours. 
The  drowsy  hours,  dispensers  of  all  good, 
O'er  the  mute  city  stole  with  folded  wings, 
Distilling  odors  on  me  as  they  went 
To  greet  their  fairer  sisters  of  the  East. 

Love  at  first  sight,  first-born,  and  heir  to  all, 
Made  this  night  thus.     Henceforward  squall  nor  sto:  m 
Could  keep  me  from  that  Eden  where  she  dwelt. 
Light  pretexts  drew  me:  sometimes  a  Dutch  love 
For  tulips;  then  for  roses,  moss  or  musk, 
To  grace  my  city  rooms:  or  fruits  and  cream 
Served  in  the  weeping  elm;  and  more  and  more 
A  word  could  bring  the  color  to  my  cheek, 
A  thought  would  fill  my  eyes  with  happy  dew; 
Love  trebled  life  within  me,  and  with  each 
The  year  increased. 

The  daughters  of  the  year 
One  after  one,  thro'  that  still  garden  pass'd : 
Each  garlanded  with  her  peculiar  flower 
Danc'd  into  light,  and  died  into  the  shade: 
And  each  in  passing  touch'd  with  some  new  grace 
Or  seem'd  to  touch  her,  so  that  day  by  day, 
Like  one  that  never  can  be  wholly  known, 
Her  beauty  grew,  till  Autumn  brought  an  hour 
For  Eustace,  when  I  heard  his  deep  u  I  will," 
Breath'd,  like  the  covenant  of  a  God,  to  hold 
From  thence  thro'  all  the  worlds :  but  I  rose  up 
Full  of  his  bliss,  and  following  her  dark  eyes, 
Felt  earth  as  air  beneath  me,  till  I  reach'd 
The  wicket-gate,  and  found  her  standing  there, 


OR,  THE  PICTURES.  203 


There  sat  we  down  upon  a  garden  mound, 
Two  mutually  enfolded;  Love,  the  third, 
Between  us,  in  the  circle  of  his  arms 
Enwound  us  both ;  and  over  many  a  range 
Of  waning  lime  the  gray  cathedral  towers, 
Across  a  hazy  glimmer  of  the  west, 
Reveal'd  their  shining  windows:  from  them  clashed 
The  bells;  we  listened;  with  the  time  we  play'd; 
We  spoke  of  other  things;  we  cours'd  about 
The  subject  most  at  heart,  more  near  and  near, 
Like  doves  about  a  dove-cote,  wheeling  round 
The  central  wish,  until  we  settled  there. 

Then,  in  that  time  and  place,  I  spoke  to  her, 
Requiring,  tho'  I  knew  it  was  mine  own, 
Yet  for  the  pleasure  that  I  took  to  hear, 
Requiring  at  her  hand  the  greatest  gift, 
A  woman's  heart,  the  heart  of  her  I  loved; 
And  in  that  time  and  place  she  answer'd  me, 
And  in  the  compass  of  three  little  words, 
More  musical  than  ever  came  in  one, 
The  silver  fragments  of  a  broken  voice, 
Made  me  most  happy,  faltering  u  I  am  thine." 

Shall  I  cease  here?     Is  this  enough  to  say 
That  my  desire,  like  all  strongest  hopes, 
By  its  own  energy  fulfil  I'd  itself, 
Merged  in  completion?     Would  you  learn  at  full 
How  passion  rose  thro'  circumstantial  grades 
Beyond  all  grades  develop'd?  and  indeed 
I  had  not  stayed  so  long  to  tell  you  all, 
But  while  I  mused  came  Memory  with  sad  eyes, 
Holding  the  folded  annals  of  my  youth; 
And  while  I  mused,  Love  with  knit  brows  went  by, 
And  with  a  Hying  ringer  swept  my  lips, 
And  spake,  "  Be  wise:  not  easily  forgiven 
Are  those,  who,  setting  wide  the  doors  that  bar 
The  secret  bridal  chambers  of  the  heart, 
Let  in  the  day."     Here,  then,  my  words  have  end. 

Yet  might  I  tell  of  meetings,  of  farewells — 
Of  that  which  came  between,  more  sweet  than  each, 
In  whispers,  like  the  whispers  of  the  leaves 
That  tremble  round  a  nightingale      in  sighs 
VVhich  perfect  Toy,  perplex'd  for  utterance, 


204 


DORA. 


Stole  from  her  sister  Sorrow.     Might  I  not  tell 
Of  difference,  reconcilement,  pledges  given, 
And  vows,  where  there  was  never  need  of  vows, 
And  kisses,  where  the  heart  on  one  wild  leap 
Hung  tranc'd  from  all  pulsation,  as  above 
The  heavens  between  their  fairy  fleeces  pale 
Sow'd  all  their  mystic  gulfs  with  fleeting  stars; 
Or  while  the  balmy  glooming,  crescent-lit, 
Spread  the  light  haze  along  the  river-shores, 
And  in  the  hollows;  or  as  once  we  met 
Unheedful,  tho'  beneath  a  whispering  rain 
Night  slid  down  one  long  stream  of  sighing  wind, 
And  in  her  bosom  bore  the  baby,  Sleep. 


But  this  whole  hour  your  eyes  have  been  intent 
On  that  veiPd  picture — veil'd,  for  what  it  holds 
May  not  be  dwelt  on  by  the  common  day. 
This  prelude  has  prepared  thee.     Raise  thy  soul; 
Make  thine  heart  ready  with  thine  eyes;  the  time 
Is  come  to  rise  the  veil. 

Behold  her  there, 
As  I  beheld  her  ere  she  knew  my  heart, 
My  first,  last  love;  the  idol  of  my  youth. 
The  darling  of  my  manhood,  and,  alas! 
Now  the  most  blessed  memory  of  mine  age. 


'•*&zm%&mz& 


DORA, 


ITH  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 
William  and  Dora.     William  was  his  son, 
JB^fo     And  she  his  niece.     He  often  look'd  at  them, 
|B>^And  often  thought  "  I'll  make  them  man  and  wife.'''' 
Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  all, 
And  yearn'd  towards  William ;  but  the  youth,  because 
He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the  house? 
Thought  not  of  Dora. 


DORA. 


205 


Then  there  came  a  day 
When  Allan  call'd  his  son,  and  said:  "  Mv  son: 
I  married  late,  but  I  would  wish  to 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  1  die: 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match. 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora;  she  is  well 
To  look  to;  thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter:   he  and  1 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and  lie  died 
In  foreign  lands;  but  for  his  sake-  I  bred 
His  daughter  Dora;   take  her  for  your  Wlfej 

For  I  have  wished  this  marriage  night  and  day, 

For  many  years."      But  William  answcrM  short: 
"  I  cannot  marry  Dora;  by  my  life, 


I  will  not  marry  Dora."     Then  the  old  man 
Was  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands,  and  said 
•  You  will  not,  boy!  you  dare  to  answer  thus! 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was  law, 
And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.     Look  to  it: 


206  DORA, 


Consider,  William :  take  a  month  to  think 
And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish; 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  yon  shall  pack, 
And  never  more  darken  my  doors  again." 
But  William  answered  madly ;  bit  his  lips, 
And  broke  away.     The  more  he  look'd  at  her 
The  less  he  liked  her:  and  his  ways  were  harsh; 
But  Dora  bore  them  meekly.     Then  before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father's  house, 
And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the  fields; 
And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  woo'd  and  wed 
A  laborer's  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 

Then,  when  the  bells  were  ringing,  Allan  call'd 
His  niece  and  said :  "  My  girl,  I  love  you  well : 
But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was  my  son, 
Or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his  wife, 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.     My  will  is  law." 
And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.     She  thought, 
"  It  cannot  be:  my  uncle's  mind  will  change!  " 

And  days  went  on,  and  there  was  born  a  boy 
To  William ;  then  distresses  came  on  him ; 
And  day  by  day  he  pass'd  his  father's  gate, 
Heart-broken,  and  his  father  help'd  him  not. 
But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could  save, 
And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did  they  know 
Who  sent  it;  till  at  last  a  fever  seized 
On  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he  died. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.     Mary  sat 
And  look'd  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and  thought 
Hard  things  of  Dora.     Dora  came  and  said : 
"  I  have  obeyed  my  uncle  until  now, 
And  I  have  sinn'd,  for  it  was  all  thro'  me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 
But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone, 
And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he  chose, 
And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you : 
You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these  five  years 
So  full  a  harvest :  let  me  take  the  boy, 
And  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 
Among  the  wheat;  that  when  his  heart  is  glad 


DORA.  207 


Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy, 

And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone." 

And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went  her  way 
Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a  mound 
That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies  grew. 
Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 
And  spied  her  not;  for  none  of  all  his  men 
Dare  tell   him  Dora  waited  with  the  child; 
And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to  him, 
But  her  heart  fail'd  her;  and  the  reapers  reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose  and  took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the  mound ; 
And  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 
That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his  hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's  eye. 
Then  when  the  farmer  pass'd  into  the  field 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at  work, 
And  came  and  said:  "  Where  were  you  yesterday? 
Whose  child  is  that!     What  are  you  doing  here?  " 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
And  answer'd  softly,  "  This  is  William's  child!  " 
«  And  did  I  not,"  said  Allan,  "  did  I  not 
Forbid  you,  Dora?"     Dora  said  again, 
"  Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the  child 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone! " 
And  Allan  said,  "  I  see  it  is  a  trick 
Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman  there. 
I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you! 
You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet  you  dared 
To  slight  it.     Well— for  I  will  take  the  boy; 
But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more." 
So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried  aloud 
And  struggled  hard.     The  wreath  of  flowers  fell 
At  Dora's  feet.     She  bow'd  upon  her  hands, 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the  field, 
More  and  more  distant.     She  bow'd  down  her  head, 
Krmembering  the  day  when  first  she  came, 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.     She  bow'd  down 
And  wept  in  secret;  and  the  reapers  reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 


208  .      DORA. 


Then  Dora  went  to  Mary's  house,  and  stood 
Upon  the  threshold.     Mary  saw  the  boy 
Was  not  with  Dora.     She  broke  out  in  praise 
To  God,  that  help'd  her  in  her  widowhood. 
And  Dora  said,  "  My  uncle  took  the  boy; 
But  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with  you: 
He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more." 
Then  answer'd  Mary,  "  This  shall  never  be, 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on  thyself: 
And,  now  I  think,  he  shall  not  have  the  boy, 
For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to  slight 
His  mother;  therefore  thou  and  I  will  go 
And  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him  home; 
And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back; 
But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again, 
Then  thou  and  I  will  live  within  one  house, 
And  work  for  William's  child,  until  he  grows 
Of  age  to  help  us." 

So  the  women  kiss'd 
Each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reached  the  farm. 
The  door  was  off  the  latch;  they  peep'd  and  saw 
The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire's  knees, 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his  arm, 
And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the  cheeks, 
Like  one  that  loved  him ;  and  the  lad  stretch'd  out 
And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal  that  hung 
From  Allan's  watch,  and  sparkled  by  the  fire. 
Then  they  came  in :  but  when  the  boy  beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her: 
And  Allan  set  him  down,  and  Mary  said: 

"  O  Father — if  you  let  me  call  you  so — . 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself, 
Or  William,  or  this  child;  but  now  I  come 
For  Dora:  take  her  back:  she  loves  you  well. 

0  Sir,  when  William  died,  he  died  at  peace 
With  all  men ;  for  I  ask'd  him,  and  he  said, 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me — 

1  had  been  a  patient  wife;  but,  Sir,  he  said 
That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father  thus: 

'  God  bless  him,'  he  said,  c  and  may  he  never  know 
The  troubles  I  have  gone  thro' ! '     Then  he  turn'd 
His  face  and  pass'd — unhappy  that  I  am ! 
But  now,  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for  you 
Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn  to  slight 


DORA. 


209 


His  father's  memory;  and  take  Dora  back, 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before." 


So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.     There  was  silence  in  the  room; 
And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in  sobs: 

"  I  have  been  to  blame — to  blame.     I  have  kill'd  my  son. 
I  have  kill'd  him — but  I  lov'd  him  —my  dear  son. 
May  God  forgive  me! — I  have  been  to  blame. 
Kiss  me,  my  children." 


Then  they  clung  about 
The  old  man's  neck,  and  kiss'd  him  many  times. 
And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  remorse; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a  hundred-fold 
And  for  three  hours  he  sobb'd  o'er  William's  child, 
Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 
Within  one  house  together;  and  as  time 
Went  forward,  Mary  took  another  mate; 
But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 


14 


210 


AUDLET  COURT. 


AUDLET  COURT. 


HE   Bull,  the  Fleece  are  cramm'd,  and  not  a  room 
For  love  or  money.     Let  us  picnic  there 
At  Audley  Court." 

I  spoke,  while  Audley  feast 
Humm'd  like  a  hive  all  round  the  narrow  quay, 
To  Francis,  with  a  basket  on  his  arm, 
To  Francis  just  alighted  from  the  boat, 
And  breathing  of  the  sea.     "  With  all  my  heart," 
Said  Francis.     Then  we  shoulder'd  thro'  the  swarm, 
And  rounded  by  the  stillness  of  the  beach 
To  where  the  bay  runs  up  its  latest  horn — 
We  left  the  dying  ebb  that  faintly  lipp'd 
The  flat  red  granite;  so  by  many  a  sweep 
Of  meadow  smooth  from  aftermath  we  reach'd 
The  griffin-guarded  gates,  and  pass'd  thro'  all 
The  pillar'd  dusk  of  sounding  sycamores, 
And  cross'd  the  garden  to  the  gardener's  lodge, 
With  all  its  casements  bedded,  and  its  walls 
And  chimneys  muffled  in  the  leafy  vine. 


There,  on  a  slope  of  orchard,  Francis  laid 
A  damask  napkin  wrought  with  horse  and  hound, 
Brought  out  a  dusky  loaf  that  smelt  of  home, 
And,  half-cut-down,  a  pasty  costly  made, 
Where  quail  and  pigeon,  lark  and  leveret  lay, 
Like  fossils  of  the  rock,  with  golden  yolks 
Imbedded  and  injellied ;  last,  with  these, 
A  flask  of  cider  from  his  father's  vats, 
Prime,  which  I  knew;  and  so  we  sat  and  eat 
And  talk'd  old  matters  over:  who  was  dead, 
Who  married,  who  was  like  to  be,  and  how 
The  races  went,  and  who  would  rent  the  hall; 
Then  touch'd  upon  the  game,  how  scarce  it  was 
This  season ;  glancing  thence,  discuss'd  the  farm, 
The  four-field  system,  and  the  price  of  grain: 
And  struck  upon  the  corn-laws,  where  we  split, 


AUDLET  COURT.  211 


And  came  again  together  on  the  king 
With  heated  faces;  till  he  laugh'd  aloud; 
And,  while  the  blackbird  on  the  pippin  hung 
To  hear  him,  clapt  his  hand  in  mine  and  sang: 

"  O,  who  would  fight  and  march  and  countermarch, 
Be  shot  for  sixpence  in  a  battle-field, 
And  shovell'd  up  into  a  bloody  trench 
Where  no  one  knows?  but  let  me  live  my  life. 

"  O,  who  would  cast  and  balance  at  a  desk, 
Perch'd  like  a  crow  upon  a  three-legg'd  stool, 
Till  all  his  juice  is  dried,  and  all  his  joints 
Are  full  of  chalk?  but  let  me  live  my  life. 

"  Who'd  serve  the  state?  for  if  I  carv'd  my  name 
Upon  the  cliffs  that  guard  my  native  land, 
I  might  as  well  have  trac'd  it  in  the  sands; 
The  sea  wastes  all :  but  let  me  live  my  life. 

"  O,  who  would  love?     I  woo'd  a  woman  once, 
But  she  was  sharper  than  an  eastern  wind, 
And  all  my  heart  turn'd  from  her,  as  a  thorn 
Turns  from  the  sea :  but  let  me  live  my  life." 

He  sang  his  song,  and  I  replied  with  mine: 
I  found  it  in  a  volume,  all  of  songs, 
Knock'd  down  to  me,  when  old  Sir  Robert's  pride, 
His  books — the  more  the  pity,  so  I  said — 
Came  to  the  hammer  here  in  March — and  this — 
I  set  the  words,  and  added  names  I  knew. 

"Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  sleep  and  dream  of  me, 
Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  thy  sister's  arm, 
And  sleeping,  haply  dream  her  arm  is  mine. 

"  Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  Emilia's  arm ; 
Emilia,  fairer  than  all  else  but  thou, 
For  thou  art  fairer  than  all  else  that  is. 

"  Sleep,  breathing  health  and  peace  upon  her  breast: 
Sleep,  breathing  love  and  trust  against  her  lip: 
I  go  to-night:  I  come  to-morrow  morn. 


212 


AUDLET  COURT. 


"  I  go,  but  I  return :  I  would  I  were 
The  pilot  of  the  darkness  and  the  dream, 
Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  love,  and  dream  of  me." 

So  sang  we  each  to  either,  Francis  Hale, 
The  farmer's  son  who  lived  across  the  bav, 
My  friend;  and  I,  that  having  wherewithal, 
And  in  the  fallow  leisure  of  my  life, 
Did  what  I  would :  but  ere  the  night  we  rose 
And  saunter'd  home  beneath  a  moon,  that,  just 
In  crescent,  dimly  rain'd  about  the  leaf 
Twilights  of  airy  silver,  till  we  reach'd 
The  limit  of  the  hills;  and  as  we  sank 
From  rock  to  rock  upon  the  glooming  quay, 
The  town  was  hush'd  beneath  us:  lower  down 
The  bay  was  oily-calm ;  the  harbor-buoy 
With  one  green  sparkle  ever  and  anon 
Dipt  by  itself,  and  we  were  glad  at  heart. 


WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 


213 


WALKING  TO    THE  MAIL. 


)HN     I'm  glad  I  walk'd.      How  fresh  the  meadows  look 
Above  the  river,  and  but  a  month  ago, 
The  whole  hillside  was  redder  than  ar  fox, 
Is  yon  plantation  where  this  by-way  joins 
The  turnpike? 

James.  Yes. 

John.  And  when  does  this  come  by? 

James.     The  mail?     At  one  o'clock. 
John.  What  is  it  now? 

James.  A  quarter  to. 

John.  Whose  house  is  that  I  see? 

No,  not  the  County  Member's  with  the  vane : 
Up  higher  with  the  yew-tree  by  it,  and  half 
A  score  of  gables. 

James.  That?     Sir  Edward  Head's: 

But  he's  abroad :  the  place  is  to  be  sold. 
John.  O,  his.     He  was  not  broken. 
James.  No,  sir,  he, 

Vex'd  with  a  morbid  devil  in  his  blood 
That  veil'd  the  world  with  jaundice,  hid  his  face 
From  all  men,  and  commercing  with  himself, 
He  lost  the  sense  that  handles  daily  life — 
That  keeps  us  all  in  order  more  or  less — 
And  sick  of  home  went  overseas  for  change. 
John.  And  whither? 

James.  Nay,  who  knows?  he's  here  and  there. 
But  let  him  go;  his  devil  goes  with  him, 
As  well  as  with  his  tenant,  Jocky  Dawes. 
Jo/in.   What's  that  r 

James.  You  saw  the  man — on  Monday,  was  it? — 
There  by  the  humpback'd  willow;  half  stands  up 
And  bristles;  half  has  fallen  and  made  a  bridge; 
And  there  lie  caught  the  younker  tickling  trout — 
Caught  mflagrante — what's  the  Latin  word? — 
Delicto:  but  his  house,  for  so  they  say, 
Was  haunted  with  a  jolly  ghost,  that  shook 
The  curtain-,  whined  in  lobbies,  tapt  at  doors, 
And  rummag'd  like  a  rat:  no  servant  stay'd: 
The  farmer  vext  packs  up  his  beds  and  chairs, 


214  WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 

And  all  his  household  stuff:  and  with  his  boy 

Betwixt  his  knees,  his  wife  upon  the  tilt, 

Sets  out,  and  meets  a  friend  who  hails  him.     U  What! 

You're  flitting!  "     "  Yes,  we're  flitting,"  says  the  ghost, 

(For  they  had  pack'd  the  thing  among  the  beds,) 

"  O  well,"  says  he,  "  you  flitting  with  us  too — 

Jack,  turn  the  horses'  heads  and  home  again." 

John.  He  left  his  wife  behind ;  for  so  I  heard. 

James.  He  left  her,  yes.     I  met  my  lady  once: 
A  woman  like  a  butt,  and  harsh  as  crabs. 

John.  O  yet  but  I  remember,  ten  years  back — 
'Tis  now  at  least  ten  years— and  then  she  was — 
You  could  not  light  upon  a  sweeter  thing : 
A  body  slight  and  round,  and  like  a  pear 
In  growing,  modest  eyes,  a  hand,  a  foot 
Lessening  in  perfect  cadence,  and  a  skin 
As  clean  and  white  as  privet  when  it  flowers. 

James.  Ay,  ay,  the  blossom  fades,  and  they  that  loved 
At  first  like  dove  and  dove  were  cat  and  dog. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a  cottager, 
Out  of  her  sphere.     What  betwixt  shame  and  pride, 
New  things  and  old,  himself  and  her,  she  sour'd 
To  what  she  is:  a  nature  never  kind! 
Like  men,  like  manners:  like  breeds  like,  they  say. 
Kind  nature  is  the  best :  those  manners  next 
That  fit  us  like  a  nature  second-hand*; 
Which  are  indeed  the  manners  of  the  great. 

John.  But  I  had  heard  it  was  this  bill  that  past, 
And  fear  of  change  at  home,  that  drove  him  hence. 

James.  That  was  the  last  drop  in  his  cup  of  gall. 
I  once  was  near  him,  when  his  bailiff  brought 
A  Chartist  pike.     You  should  have  seen  him  wince 
As  from  a  venomous  thing:  he  thought  himself 
A  mark  for  all,  and  shudder'd,  lest  a  cry 
Should  break  his  sleep  by  night,  and  his  nice  eyes 
Should  see  the  raw  mechanic's  bloody  thumbs 
Sweat  on  his  blazon'd  chairs;  but,  sir,  you  know 
That  these  two  parties  still  divide  the  world — 
Of  those  that  want,  and  those  that  have :  and  still 
The  same  old  sore  breaks  out  from  age  to  age 
With  much  the  same  result.     Now  T  myself, 
A  Tory  to  the  quick,  was  as  a  boy 
Destructive,  when  I  had  not  what  I  would. 
I  was  at  school — a  college  in  the  South: 
There  lived  a  flay  flint  near;  we  stole  his  fruit, 


WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 


215 


His  hensj  his  eggs;  but  there  was  law  for  us: 
We  paid  in  person.     He  had  a  sow,  sir.     She, 
With  meditative  grunts  of  much  content, 
Lay  great  with  pig,  wallowing  in  sun  and  mud. 
By  night  we  dragged  her  to  the  college  tower 
From  her  warm  bed,  and  up  the  corkscrew  stair 
With  hand  and   rope  we  haled  the  groaning  sow. 
And  on  the  leads  we  kept  her  till  she  pigg'd. 
Large  range  of  prospect  had  the  mother  sow, 
And  but  for  daily  loss  of  one  she  lov'd, 
As  one  by  one  we  took  them — but  for  this — 
As  never  sow  was  higher  in  this  world — 
Might  have  been  happy:  but  what  lot  is  pure? 
We  took  them  all,  till  she  was  left  alone 
Upon  her  tower,  the  Niobe  of  swine, 
And  so  returned  unfarrow'd  to  her  sty. 

yohn.       They  found  you  out? 

yamcs.  Not  they. 

John.  Well— after  all— 

What  know  we  of  the  secret  of  a  man? 
His  nerves  were  wrong.     What  ails  us,  who  are  sound, 
That  we  should  mimic  this  raw  fool  the  world, 
Which  charts  us  all  in  its  course  blacks  or  whites, 
As  ruthless  as  a  baby  with  a  worm, 
As  cruel  as  a  school-boy  ere  he  grows 
To  Pity — more  from  ignorance  than  will. 

But  put  your  best  foot  forward,  or  I  fear 
That  we  shall  miss  the  mail :  and  here  it  comes 
With  five  at  top:  as  quaint  a  four-in-hand 
As  you  shall  see — three  piebalds  and  a  roan. 


?%&&^m 


216 


ED  WIN  MORRIS;  OR,  THE  LAKE. 


ED  WIN  MORRIS;  OR,  THE  LAKE. 


\    ME,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake, 

My  sweet,  wild,  fresh  three-quarters  of  a  year, 
My  one  Oasis  in  the  dust  and  drouth 
Of  city  life !  I  was  a  sketcher  then : 
See  here,  my  doing:  curves  of  mountain,  bridge. 
Boat,  island,  ruins  of  a  castle,  built 
When  men  knew  how  to  build,  upon  a  rock 
With  turrets  lichen-gilded  like  a  rock: 
And  here,  new-comers  in  an  ancient  hold, 
New-comers  from  the  Mersey,  millionaires, 
Here  lived  the  Hills — a  Tudor-chimney'd  bulk 
Of  mellow  brickwork  on  an  isle  of  bowers. 


" 


"  And  now  we  left 
The  clerk  behind  us,  I  and  he,  and  ran, 
By  ripply  shallows  of  the  lisping  lake." 

See  page  2iq. 


EDWIN  MORRIS;  OR,  THE  LAKE.  21' 

O  me,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake 
With  Edwin  Morris  and  with  Edward  Bull 
The  curate;  he  was  fatter  than  his  cure. 

But  Edwin  Morris,  he  that  knew  the  names, 
Long  learn'd  names  of  agaric,  mo^s  and  fern, 
Who  forg'd  a  thousand  theories  of  the  rocks, 
Who  taught  me  how  to  skate,  to  row,  to  swim, 
Who  read  me  rli vmos  elaborately  good, 
Ili^  own    -I  call'd  him  Crichton,  for  he  seem  v', 
All-perfect,  finished  to  the  finger  nail. 

And  <>ncc  1  ask'd  him  <>f  his  early  life, 

And  his  firs!  passion;  and  lie  answer'd  me; 

And  well  his  words  became  him:  was  he  not 
A  ftill-cell'd  honeycomb  of  eloquence 

Stored  horn  all  flowers?      Poet-like  he  spoke. 

"  Mv  love  for  Nature  is  as  old  as  I; 
But  thirty  moons,  one  honeymoon  to  that, 
And  three  rich  sennights  more,  my  love  for  her. 
Mv  love  for  Nature  and  my  love  for  her, 
Of  different  ages,  like  twin-sisters  grew, 
Twin-sisters  differently  beautiful. 
To  some  full  music  rose  and  sank  the  sun, 
And  some  full  music  seem'd  to  move  and  change 
With  all  the  varied   changes  of  the  dark, 
Ami  either  twilight  and   the  day  between; 

daily  hope  rulfHPd.  to  rise  again 
Revolving  toward  fulfillment,  made  it  sweet 
walk,  to  si;,  to  sleep,  to  wake,  to  breathe." 

Or  this  <»r  something  like  to  this  he  spoke. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward  Bull, 
"  I  take  it,  God  made  the  woman  for  the  man, 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  <>f"  the  world. 
A   pretty  face  is  well,  and  this  i-,  well, 
To  have  a  dame  indoors,  that  trims  us  up, 
And  keeps  us  tight;    hut  these  unreal  w 

i  hut  the  theme  of  writers,  and  indeed 
Worn  threadbare.       Man  is  made  of  solid   stuff. 
I  sav,  God  made  the  woman  for  the  man, 
.1  for  the  ^ood  and  increase  of  the  world." 


218 


EDWIN  MORRIS;  OR,  THE  LAKE. 


"  Parson,"  said  I,  "  you  pitch  the  pipe  too  low: 
But  I  have  sudden  touches,  and  can  run 
My  faith  beyond  my  practice  into  his: 
Tho'  if,  in  dancing  after  Letty  Hill, 
I  do  not  hear  the  bells  upon  my  cap 
I  scarce  hear  other  music:  yet  say  on. 
What  should  one  give  to  light  on  such  a  dream?" 
I  ask'd  him  half-sardonically. 

"  Give  ? 
Give  all  thou  art,"  he  answer'd,  and  a  light 
Of  laughter  dimpled  in  his  swarthy  cheek; 
"  I  would  have  hid  her  needle  in  my  heart, 
To  save  her  little  finger  from  a  scratch 
No  deeper  than  the  skin :  my  ears  could  hear 
Her  lightest  breath:  her  least  remark  was  worth 
The  experience  of  the  wise.     I  went  and  came; 
Her  voice  fled  always  thro'  the  summer  land ; 
I  spoke  her  name  alone.     Thrice-happy  days! 
The  flower  of  each,  those  moments  when  we  met, 
The  crown  of  all,  we  met  to  part  no  more." 

Were  not  his  words  delicious,  I  a  beast 
To  take  them  as  I  did?  but  something  jarr'd; 
Whether  he  spoke  too  largely ;  that  there  seem'd 
A  touch  of  something  false,  some  self-conceit, 
Or  over-smoothness:  howsoe'er  it  was, 
He  scarcely  hit  my  humor,  and  I  said: 

"  Friend  Edwin,  do  not  think  yourself  alone 
Of  all  men  happy.     Shall  not  Love  to  me, 
As  in  the  Latin  song  I  learnt  at  school, 
Sneeze  out  a  full  God-bless-you  right  and  left? 
But  you  can  talk:  yours  is  a  kindly  vein: 
I  have,  I  think, — Heaven  knows — as  much  within; 
Have,  or  should  have,  but  for  a  thought  or  two, 
That  like  a  purple  beech  among  the  greens  . 
Looks  out  of  place:  'tis  from  no  want  in  her: 
It  is  my  shyness,  or  my  self-distrust, 
Or  something  of  a  wayward  modern  mind 
Dissecting  passion.     Time  will  set  me  right." 


So  spoke  I  knowing  not  the  things  that  were. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward  Bull : 
"  God  made  the  woman  for  the  use  of  man, 
And  for  the  good  an(i  increase  of  the  world." 


EDWIN  MORRIS;  OR,  THE  LAKE.  219 

, 

And  I  and  Edwin  laugh'd ;  and  now  we  paus'd 
About  the  windings  of  the  marge  to  hear 
The  soft  wind  blowing  over  meadowy  holms 
And  alders,  garden-isles;  and  now  we  left. 
The  clerk  behind  us,  I  and  he,  and  ran 
By  ripply  shallows  of  the  lisping  lake, 
Delighted  with  the  freshness  and  the  sound. 

But,  when  the  bracken  rusted  on  their  crags. 
My  suit  had  withered,  nipt  to  death  by  him 
That  was  a  God,  and  is  a  lawyer's  clerk, 
The  rentroll  Cupid  of  our  rainy  isles. 
'Tis  true,  we  met;  one  hour  I  had,  no  more: 
She  sent  a  note,  the  seal  an  Elle  vous  suit, 
The  close  "  Your  Letty,  only  yours;"  and  this 
Thrice  underscored.     The  friendly  mist  of  morn 
Clung  to  the  lake,  I  boated  over,  ran 
My  craft  aground,  and  heard  with  beating  heart 
The  Sweet-Gale  rustle  round  the  shelving  keel: 
And  out  I  stept,  and  up  I  crept :  she  moved, 
Like  Proserpine  in  Enna,  gathering  flowers: 
Then  low  and  sweet  I  whistled  thrice:  and  she, 
She  turn'd,  we  closed,  we  kiss'd,  swore  faith,  I  breathed 
In  some  new  planet:  a  silent  cousin  stole 
Upon  us  and  departed :  "  Leave,"  she  cried, 
"  O  leave  me!  "  "  Never,  dearest,  never:  here 
I  brave  the  worst: "  and  whilst  we  stood  like  fools 
Embracing,  all  at  once  a  score  of  pugs 
And  poodles  yell'd  within,  and  out  they  came 
Trustees  and  Aunts  and  Uncles.     "  What,  with  him!  " 
'•  Go  "  (shrill'd  the  cotton-spinning  chorus);  "  him!  " 
I  choked.     Again  they  shriek'd  the  burthen — "  Him!" 
Again  with  hands  of  wild  dejection  "  Go! — 
Girl,  get  you  in!"     She  went — and  in  one  month 
They  wedded  her  to  sixty  thousand  pounds, 
To  lands  in  Kent  and  messuages  in  York, 
And  slight  Sir  Robert  with  his  watery  smile 
And  educated  whisker.     But  for  me, 
They  set  an  ancient  creditor  to  work: 
It  seems  I  broke  a  close  with  force  and  arms: 
There  came  a  mystic  token  from  the  king 
To  greet  the  sheriff,  needless  courtesy — 
I  read,  and  fled  by  night,  and  flying  turn'd : 
Her  taper  glimmer'd  in  the  lake  below: 
I  turn'd  once  more,  close-button'd  to  the  storm; 


220 


EDWIN  MORRIS;  OR,  THE  LAKE. 


So  left  the  place,  left  Edwin,  nor  have  seen 
Him  since,  nor  heard  of  her,  nor  cared  to  hear. 

Nor  cared  to  hear?  perhaps:  yet  long  ago 
I  have  pardon'd  little  Letty;  not  indeed, 
It  may  be,  for  her  own  dear  sake  but  this, 
She  seems  a  part  of  those  fresh  days  to  me; 
For  in  the  dust  and  drouth  of  London  life 
She  moves  among  my  visions  of  the  lake 


While  the  prime  swallow  dips  his  wing,  or  then 

While  the  gold-lily  blows,  and  overhead 

The  light  cloud  smoulders  on  the  summer  crag. 


ST.  SIMEON  STTLITES. 


221 


ST.  SIMEON  STTLITES. 


W       LTHO'  I  be  the  basest  of  mankind, 
IT*.  From  scalp  to  sole  one  slough  and  crust  of  sin, 
^Unfit  for  earth,  unfit  for  heaven,  scarce  meet 
For  troops  of  devils,  mad  with  blasphemy, 
,  I  will  not  cease  to  grasp  the  hope  I  hold 
wRfejg-Of  saintdom,  and  to  clamor,  mourn,  and  soli, 
/ Vpttattering   the   gates  of    heaven    with   storms 
of  prayer, 
Have  mercy,  Lord,  and  take  away  my  sin. 

Let  this  avail,  just,  dreadful,  mighty  God, 
This  not  be  all  in  vain,  that  thrice  ten  years, 
Tli rice  multiplied  by  superhuman  pangs, 
In  hungers  and  in  thirsts,  fevers  and  cold, 
In  coughs,  aches,  stitches,  ulcerous  throes  and  cramps, 
A  sign  betwixt  the  meadow  and  the  cloud, 
Patient  on  this  tall  pillar  I  have  borne 
Rain,  wind,  frost,  heat,  hail,  damp,  and  sleet,  and  snow; 
And  I  had  hoped  that  ere  this  period  closed 
Thou  wouldst  have  caught  me  up  into  thy  rest, 
Denying  not  these  weather-beaten  limbs 
The  meed  of  saints,  the  white  robe  and  the  palm. 


O  take  the  meaning,  Lord:  I  do  not  breathe, 
Not  whisper  any  murmur  of  complaint, 
Pain  heap'd  ten-hundred-fold  to  this,  were  still 

burthen,  by  ten-hundred-fold,  to  bear, 
Than  were  those 'lead-like  tons  of  sin,  that  crush'd 
M  v  spirit  flat  before  thee. 

O  Lord,  Lord, 
Thou  knowest  I  bore  this  better  at  the  first, 
For  I  was  strong  and  hale  of  body  then; 
And  tho'  my  teeth,  which  now  are  dropt  away, 
Would  chatter  with  the  cold,  and  all  my  beard 
Was  tagg'd  with  icy  fringes  in  the  moon, 
I  drown'd  the  whoopings  of  the  owl  with  sound 
Of  pious  hymns  and  psalms,  and  sometimes  saw 


222  ST.  SIMEON  STTLITES. 

An  angel  stand  and  watch  me  as  I  sang. 
Now  am  I  feeble  grown;  my  end  draws  nigh; 
I  hope  my  end  draws  nigh:  half-deaf  I  am, 
So  that  I  scarce  can  hear  the  people  hum 
About  the  column's  base,  and  almost  blind, 
And  scarce  can  recognize  the  fields  I  know; 
And  both  iny  thighs  are  rotted  with  the  dew, 
Yet  cease  I  not  to  clamor  and  to  cry, 
While  my  stiff  spine  can  hold  my  weary  head, 
Till  all  my  limbs  drop  piecemeal  from  the  stone, 
Have  mercy,  mercy:  take  away  my  sin. 

O  Jesus,  if  thou  wilt  not  save  my  soul, 
Who  may  be  saved?  who  is  it  may  be  saved? 
Who  may  be  made  a  saint,  if  I  fail  here? 
Show  me  the  man  hath  suffered  more  than  I. 
For  did  not  all  thy  martyrs  die  one  death? 
For  either  they  were  stoned,  or  crucified, 
Or  burn'd  in  fire,  or  boil'd  in  oil,  or  sawn 
In  twain  beneath  the  ribs;  but  I  die  here 
To-day,  and  whole  years  long,  a  life  of  death. 
Bear  witness,  if  I  could  have  found  a  way 
(And  needfully  I  sifted  all  my  thought) 
More  slowly-painful  to  subdue  this  home 
Of  sin,  my  flesh,  which  I  despise  and  hate, 
I  had  not  stinted  practice.     O  my  God. 

For  not  alone  this  pillar-punishment, 
Not  this  alone  I  bore :  but  while  I  lived 
In  the  white  convent  down  the  valley  there, 
For  many  weeks  about  my  loins  I  wore 
The  rope  that  haled  the  buckets  from  the  well, 
Twisted  as  tight  as  I  could  knot  the  noose; 
And  spake  not  of  it  to  a  single  soul, 
Until  the  ulcer,  eating  thro'  my  skin, 
Betray'd  my  secret  penance,  so  that  all 
My  brethren  marvell'd  greatly.     More  than  this 
I  bore,  whereof,  O  God,  thou  knowest  all. 

Three  winters,  that  my  soul  might  grow  to  thee, 
I  lived  up  there  on  yonder  mountain  side. 
My  right  leg  chain'd  into  the  crag,  I  lay 
Pent  in  a  roofless  close  of  ragged  stones; 
Inswath'd  sometimes  in  wandering  mist,  and  twice 


ST.  SIMEON  STTLITES .  2  "J:  * 

Black'd  with  thy  branding  thunder,  and  sometimes 
Sucking  the  damps  for  drink,  and  eating  not, 
Except  the  spare  chance  gift  of  those  that  came 
To  touch  my  body  and  be  heal'd,  and  live: 
And  they  say  then  that  I  work'd  miracles, 
Whereof  my  fame  is  loud  amongst  mankind, 
Cured  lameness,  palsies,  cancers.     Thou,  O  God, 
Knowest  alone  whether  this  was  or  no. 
Have  mercy,  mercy ;  cover  all  my  sin. 

Then,  that  I  might  be  more  alone  with  thee, 
Three  years  I  lived  upon  a  pillar,  high 
Six  cubits,  and  three  years  on  one  of  twelve; 
And  twice  three  years  I  crouch'd  on  one  that  rose 
Twenty  by  measure;  last  of  all,  I  grew, 
Twice  ten  long  weary,  weary  years  to  this, 
That  numbers  forty  cubits  from  the  soil. 

I  think  that  I  have  borne  as  much  as  this — 
Or  else  I  dream — and  for  so  long  a  time, 
If  I  may  measure  time  by  yon  slow  light, 
And  this  high  dial,  which  my  sorrow  crowns — 
So  much — even  so. 

And  yet  I  know  not  well, 
For  that  the  evil  ones  come  here,  and  say, 
44  Fall  down,  O  Simeon :  thou  hast  suffered  long 
For  ages  and  for  ages!"  then  they  prate 
Of  penances  I  cannot  have  gone  thro', 
Perplexing  me  with  lies;  and  oft  I  fall, 
Maybe  for  months,  in  such  blind  lethargies, 
That  Heaven,  and  Earth,  and  Time  are  choked. 

But  yet 
Bethink  thee,  Lord,  while  thou  and  all  the  saints 
Enjoy  themselves  in  Heaven,  and  men  on  earth 
House  in  the  shade  of  comfortable  roofs, 
Sit  with  their  wives  by  fires,  eat  wholesome  food, 
And  wear  warm  clothes,  and  even  beasts  have  stalls, 
I  'tween  the  spring  and  downfall  of  the  light, 
Bown  down  one  thousand  and  two  hundred  times, 
To  Christ,  the  Virgin  Mother,  and  the  Saints; 
Or  in  the  night,  after  a  little  sleep, 
I  wake:  the  chill  stars  sparkle;  I  am  wet 
With  drenching  dews,  or  stiff  with  crackling  frost, 
I  wear  an  undress'd  goatskin  on  my  back; 


224  ST.  SIMEON  STTLITES. 


A  grazing  iron  collar  grinds  my  neck; 
And  in  my  weak,  lean  arms  I  lift  the  cross, 
And  strive  and  wrestle  with  thee  till  I  die: 
O  mercy,  mercy!  wash  away  my  sin. 

O  Lord,  thou  knowest  what  a  man  I  am; 
A  sinful  man,  conceiv'd  and  born  in  sin: 
'Tis  their  own  doing;  this  is  none  of  mine; 
Lay  it  not  to  me.     Am  I  to  blame  for  this, 
That  here  come  those  that  worship  me?     Ha!  ha! 
They  think  that  I  am  somewhat.     What  am  I? 
The  silly  people  take  me  for  a  saint, 
And  bring  me  offerings  of  fruit  and  flowers: 
And  T,  in  truth  (thou  wilt  bear  witness  here) 
Have  all  in  all  endur'd  as  much,  and  more 
Than  many  just  and  holy  men,  whose  names 
Are  register'd  and  calendared  for  saints. 

Good  people,  you  do  ill  to  kneel  to  me. 
What  is  it  I  can  have  done  to  merit  this! 
I  am  a  sinner  viler  than  you  all. 
It  may  be  I  have  wrought  some  miracles, 
And  cured  some  halt  and  rnaim'd;  but  what  of  that? 
It  may  be,  no  one,  even  among  the  saints, 
May  match  his  pains  with  mine;  but  what  of  that? 
Yet  do  not  rise:  for  you  may  look  on  me, 
And  in  your  looking  you  may  kneel  to  God. 
Speak!  is  there  any  of  you  halt  or  maim'd? 
I  think  you  know  I  have  some  power  with  Heaven 
From  my  long  penance:  let  him  speak  his  wish. 

Yes,  I  can  heal  him.     Power  goes  forth  from  me. 
They  say  that  they  are  heal'd.     Ah,  hark!  they  shout 
"  St.  Simeon  Stylites."     Why,  if  so, 
God  reaps  a  harvest  in  me.     O  my  soul, 
God  reaps  a  harvest  in  thee.     If  this  be, 
Can  I  work  miracles  and  not  be  saved? 
This  is  not  told  of  any.     They  were  saints. 
It  cannot  be  but  that  I  shall  be  saved, 
Yea,  crown'd  a  saint.     They  shout,  "  Behold  a  saint!" 
And  lower  voices  saint  me  from   above. 
Courage,  St.  Simeon!    This  dull  chrj^salis 
Cracks  into  shining  wings,  and  hope  ere  death 
Spreads  more  and  more  and  more,  that  God  hath  now 


ST.  SIMEON  STTLITES.  225 

Spong'd  and  made  blank  of  criraeful  record  all 
My  mortal  archives. 

O  my  sons,  my  sons, 
I,  Simeon  of  the  pillar,  by  surname 
Stylites,  among  men;  I,  Simeon, 
The  watcher  on  the  column  till  the  end; 
I,  Simeon,  whose  brain  the  sunshine  bakes; 
I,  whose  bald  brows  in  silent  hours  become 
Unnaturally  hoar  with  rime,  do  now 
From  my  high  nest  of  penance  here  proclaim 
That  Pontius  and  Iscariot  by  my  side 
Showed  like  fair  seraphs.     On  the  coals  I  lay, 
A  vessel  full  of  sin :  all  hell  beneath 
Made  me  boil  over.     Devils  pluck'd  my  sleeve; 
Abaddon  and  Asmodeus  caught  at  me. 
I  smote  them  with  the  cross;  they  swarm'd  again. 
In  bed  like  monstrous  apes  they  crushed  my  chest: 
They  flapp'd  my  light  out  as  I  read :  I  saw 
Their  faces  grow  between  me  and  my  book: 
With  colt-like  whinny  and  with  hoggish  whine 
They  burst  my  prayer.     Yet  this  way  was  left, 
And  by  this  way  I  'scaped  them.     Mortify 
Your  flesh,  like  me,  with  scourges  and  with  thorns; 
Smite,  shrink  not,  spare  not.     If  it  may  be,  fast 
Whole  Lents,  and  pray.     I  hardly,  with  slow  steps, 
With  slow,  faint  steps,  and  much  exceeding  pain, 
Have  scrambled  past  those  pits  of  fire,  that  still 
Sing  in  mine  ears.     But  yield  not  me  the  praise: 
God  only  thro'  his  bounty  hath  thought  fit, 
Among  the  powers  and  princes  of  this  world, 
To  make  me  an  example  to  mankind, 
Which  few  can  reach  to.     Yet  I  do  not  say 
But  that  a  time  may  come — yea,  even  now, 
Now,  now,  his  footsteps  smite  the  threshold  stairs 
Of  life — I  say,  that  time  is  at  the  doors 
When  you  may  worship  me  without  reproach; 
For  I  will  leave  my  relics  in  your  land, 
And  you  may  carve  a  shrine  about  my  dust, 
And  burn  a  fragrant  lamp  before  my  bones, 
When  I  am  gathered  to  the  glorious  saints. 

While  I  spake  then,  a  sting  of  shrewdest  pain 
Ran  shrivelling  thro'  me,  and  a  cloud-like  change, 
In  passing,  with  a  grosser  film  made  thick 
These  heavy,  horny  eyes.     The  end!  the  end! 
14 


226 


ST.  SIMEON  STTLITES. 


Surely  the  end!     What's  here?  a  shape,  a  shape, 

A  flash  of  light.     Is  that  the  angel  there 

That  holds  a  crown?     Come,  blessed  brother,  come. 

I  know  thy  glittering  face.     I  waited  long; 

My  brows  are  ready.     What!  deny  it  now? 

Nay,  draw,  draw,  draw  nigh.     So  I  clutch  it.     Christ! 

'Tis  gone:  'tis  here  again:  the  crown!  the  crown! 

So  now  'tis  fitted  on  and  grows  to  me, 

And  from  it  melt  the  dews  of  Paradise, 

Sweet!  sweet!  spikenard,  and  balm,  and  frankincense. 

Ah!  let  me  not  be  fool'd,  sweet  saints:  I  trust 

That  I  am  whole,  and  clean,  and  meet  for  Heaven. 

Speak,  if  there  be  a  priest,  a  man  of  God, 
Among  you  there,  and  let  him  presently 
Approach,  and  lean  a  ladder  on  the  shaft, 
And  climbing  up  unto  my  airy  home, 
Deliver  me  the  blessed  sacrament; 
For  by  the  warning  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
I  prophesy  that  I  shall  die  to-night, 
A  quarter  before  twelve. 

But  thou,  O  Lord, 
Aid  all  this  foolish  people;  let  them  take 
Example,  pattern ;  lead  them  to  thy  light. 


THE  TALKING  OAK 


927 


THE   TALKING  OAK. 


E£>NCE  more  the  gate  behind  me  falls: 
Once  more  before  m\    face 
I  Bee  the  moulder'd  Abbey- walls, 

That  stand  within  the-  chace. 

D 
O 

**W$® Beyond  the  lodge  the  city  lies, 

Beneath  its  drift  of  smoke; 

J£*^  And  ah!  with  what  delighted  eyes 

I  turn  to  yonder  oak. 

For  when  my  passion  first  began, 

Ere  that,  which  in  me  burn'd, 
The  love,  that  makes  me  thrice  a  man, 

Could  hope  itself  return'd; 


To  yonder  oak  within  the  field 

I  spoke  without  restraint, 
And  with  a  larger  faith  appeal'd 

Than  Papist  unto  Saint. 

For  oft  I  talk'd  with  him  apart, 
And  told  him  of  my  choice, 

Until  he  plagiarized  a  heart, 
And  answer'd  with  a  voice. 

Tho'  what  he  whisper'd,  under  Heaven 
None  else  could  understand'; 

I  found  him  garrulously  given, 
A  babbler  in  the  land. 

But  since  1  heard  him  make  reply 

Is  many  a  weary  hour; 
'Twere  well  to  question  him,  and  try 

If  yet  he  keeps  the  power. 


Hail,  hidden  to  the  knees  in  fern, 
Broad  Oak  of  Sumner-chace, 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


Whose  topmost  branches  can  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  ! 

Say  thou,  whereon  I  carv'd  her  name, 

If  ever  maid  or  spouse, 
As  fair  as  my  Olivia,  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs — 

"  O  Walter,  I  have  shelter'd  here 

Whatever  maiden  grace 
The  good  old  Summers,  year  by  year, 

Made  ripe  in  Sumner-chace: 

Old  Summers,  when  the  monk  was  fat, 
And,  issuing  shorn  and  sleek, 

Would  twist  his  girdle  tight,  and  pat 
The  girls  upon  the  cheek, 

"  Ere  yet,  in  scorn  of  Peter's-pence, 
And  number'd  bead  and  shrift, 

Bluff  Harry  broke  into  the  spence, 
And  turn'd  the  cowls  adrift: 

"  And  I  have  seen  some  score  of  those 
Fresh  faces  that  would  thrive 

When  this  man-minded  offset  rose 
To  chase  the  deer  at  five; 

"  And  all  that  from  the  town  would  stroll, 
Till  that  wild  wind  made  work 

In  which  the  gloomy  brewer's  soul 
Went  by  me,  like  a  stork : 

"  The  slight  she-slips  of  loyal  blood, 

And  others,  passing  praise, 
Strait-laced,  but  all-too-full  in  bud 

For  puritanic  stays : 

M  And  I  have  shadow'd  many  a  group 

Of  beauties  that  were  born 
In  tea-cup  times  of  hood  and  hoop, 

Or  while  the  patch  was  worn ; 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


229 


"  And,  leg  and  arm  with  love-knots  gay, 

About  me  leapM  and  laugh'd 
The  modish  Cupid  of  the  day, 

And  shrill'd  his  tinsel  shaft. 

"  I  swear  (and  else  may  insects  prick 

Each  leaf  into  a  gall) 
This  girl,  for  whom  your  heart  is  sick, 

Is  three  times  worth  them  all ; 

"  For  those  and  theirs,  by  Nature's  law, 

Have  faded  long  ago; 
But  in  these  latter  springs  I  saw 

Your  own  Olivia  blow, 

"  From  when  she  gamboll'd  on  the  greens, 
A  baby-germ,  to  when 


WT 

k\w 

> 

BH5 
j 

■  m         i 

\M, .  i 

The  maiden  blossoms  of  her  teens 
Could  number  five  from  ten. 


"  I  swear,  by  leaf,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
(And  hear  me  with  thine  ears,) 


230  THE  TALKING  OAK. 


That,  tho'  I  circle  in  the  grain 
Five  hundred  rings  of  years — 

"  Yet,  since  I  first  could  cast  a  shade, 

Did  never  creature  pass 
So  slightly,  musically  made, 

So  light  upon  the  grass: 

"  For  as  to  fairies,  that  will  flit 
To  make  the  greensward  fresh, 

I  hold  them  exquisitely  knit, 
But  far  too  spare  of  flesh." 

O  hide  thy  knotted  knees  in  fern, 

And  overlook  the  chace; 
And  from  thy  topmost  branch  discern 

The  roofs  of  Sumner-place. 

But  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name, 
That  oft  has  heard  my  vows, 

Declare  when  last  Olivia  came 
To  sport  beneath  thy  boughs, 

"  O  yesterday,  you  know,  the  fair 

Was  holden  at  the  town: 
Her  father  left  his  good  arm-chair, 

And  rode  his  hunter  down. 

"  And  with  him  Albert  came  on  his, 

I  look'd  at  him  with  joy : 
As  cowslip  unto  oxlip  is, 

So  seems  she  to  the  boy. 

"  An  hour  had  past — and,  sitting  straight 
Within  the  low-wheel'd  chaise, 

Her  mother  trundl'd  to  the  gate 
Behind  the  dappled  grays. 

"  But,  as  for  her,  she  stay'd  at  home, 

And  on  the  roof  she  went, 
And  down  the  way  you  use  to  come 

She  look'd  with  discontent. 


THE  TALKING  OAK.  231 


"  She  left  the  novel  half-uncut 

Upon  the  rosewood  shelf; 
She  left  the  new  piano  shut: 

She  could  not  please  herself. 

a  Then  ran  she,  gamesome  as  the  colt, 

And  livelier  than  a  lark 
She  sent  her  voice  thro'  all  the  holt 

Before  her,  and  the  park. 

"  A  lignt  wind  chas'd  her  on  the  wing, 

And  in  the  chase  grew  wild, 
As  close  as  might  be  would  he  cling 

About  the  darling  child: 

"  But  light  as  any  wind  that  blows 

So  fleetly  did  she  stir, 
The  flower,  she  touch'd  on,  dipt  and  rose, 

And  turn'd  to  look  at  her. 


"  And  here  she  came,  and  round  me  play'd, 

And  sang  to  me  the  whole 
Of  those  three  stanzas  that  you  made 

About  my  8  giant  bole; ' 

"  And  in  a  fit  of  frolic  mirth 

She  strove  to  span  my  waist: 
Alas,  I  was  so  broad  of  girth, 

I  could  not  be  embrae'd. 

"  I  wish'd  myself  the  fair  young  beech 

That  here  beside  me  stands, 
That  round  me,  clasping  each  in  each, 

She  might  have  lockM  her  hands. 

"  Yet  seem'd  the  pressure  thrice  as  sweet 

As  woodbine's  fragile  hold, 
Or  when  I  feel  about  my  feet 

The  berried  briony  fold." 

O  muffle  round  thy  knees  with  fern, 
And  shadow  Sumner-chace! 


232 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


Long  may  thy  topmost  branch  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place! 

But  tell  me,  did  she  read  the  name 

I  carv'd  with  many  vows 
When  last  with  throbbing  heart  I  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs? 


"  O  yes,  she  wander'd  round  and  round 
These  knotted  knees  of  mine, 

And  found,  and  kiss'd  the  name  she  found, 
And  sweetly  murmur'd  thine. 


«  A  teardrop  trembled  from  its  source, 
And  down  my  surface  crept. 

My  sense  of  touch  is  something  coarse, 
But  I  believe  she  wept. 


'I  seethe  moulder'd  Abbey  Walls." 

See  fage  22j. 


1 


THE   TALKING  OAK. 


"  Then  flush'd  her  cheek  with  rosy  liydit, 

She  glanc'd  across  the  plain; 
But  not  a  creature  was  in  sight: 

She  kiss'd  me  once  again. 

"  Her  kisses  were  so  close  and  kind, 

That,  trust  me  on  my  word, 
Hard  wood  I  am,  and  wrinkled  rind, 

But  yet  my  sap  was  stirr'd; 

"  And  even  into  my  inmost  ring 

A  pleasure  I  discern'd, 
Like  those  hlind  motions  of  the  Spring, 

That  show  the  year  is  turn'd. 

"  Thrice  happy  he  that  may  care- 

The  ringlet's  waving  halm — 
The  cushions  of  whose  touch  may  press 

The  maiden's  tender  palm. 

"  I,  rooted  here  among  the  groves, 

But  languidly  adjust 
My  vapid  vegetable  loves 

With  anthers  and  with  dust: 

«  For  ah!  my  friend,  the  days  were  brief 

Whereof  the  poets  talk, 
When  that,  which  breathes  within  the  leaf, 

Could  slip  its  bark  and  walk. 

"But  could  I,  as  in  times  foregone, 
From  spray,  and  branch,  and  stem, 

Have  suck'd  and  gathered  into  one 
The  life  that  spreads  in  them, 

«  She  had  not  found  me  so  remiss; 

But  lightly  issuing  thro', 
I  would  have  paid  her  kiss  for  kiss 

With  usury  thereto." 

O  flourish  high,  with  leafy  towers, 
And  overlook  the  lea, 


234  THE  TALKING  OAK. 


Pursue  thy  loves  among  the  bowers, 
But  leave  thou  mine  to  me. 


O  flourish,  hidden  deep  in  fern, 

Old  oak,  I  love  thee  well; 
A  thousand  thanks  for  what  I  learn 

And  what  remains  to  tell. 

"  'Tis  little  more ;  the  day  was  warm ; 

At  last,  tired  out  with  play, 
She  sank  her  head  upon  her  arm, 

And  at  my  feet  she  lay. 

"  Her  eyelids  dropp'd  their  silken  eaves. 

I  breathed  upon  her  eyes 
Thro'  all  the  summer  of  my  leaves 

A  welcome  mix'd  with  sighs.. 

"I  took  the  swarming  sound  of  life — 

The  music  from  the  town — 
The  murmurs  of  the  drum  and  fife 

And  lull'd  them  in  my  own. 

"  Sometimes  I  let  a  sunbeam  slip, 

To  light  her  shaded  eye ; 
A  second  flutter'd  round  her  lip 

Like  a  golden  butterfly; 

"  A  third  would  glimmer  on  her  neck 
To  make  the  necklace  shine; 

Another  slid,  a  sunny  fleck, 
From  head  to  ankle  fine. 

*  Then  close  and  dark  my  arms  I  spread, 

And  shadow'd  all  her  rest — 
Dropt  dews  upon  her  golden  head, 

An  acorn  in  her  breast. 

"  But  in  a  pet  she  started  up, 
And  pluck'd  it  out,  and  drew 

My  little  oakling  from  the  cup, 
And  flung  him  in  the  dew. 


"As  when  I  see  the  woodman  lift 
His  axe  to  slay  my  kin." 


THE  TALKING  OAK.  235 


"  And  yet  it  was  a  graceful  gift — 

I  felt  a  pang  within 
As  when  I  see  the  woodman  lift 

His  axe  to  day  my  kin. 

"  I  shook  him  down  because  he  was 

The  finest  on  the  tree. 
He  lies  beside  thee  <>n  the  grass. 

O  kiss  him  once  for  me. 

"  O  kiss  him  twice  and  thrice  for  me, 

That  have  no  lips  to  ki-^, 
For  never  yet  was  oak  oil  lea 

Shall  grow  so  fair  as  this." 

Step  deeper  yet  in  herb  and  fern, 
Look  further  thro'  the  chace, 

Spread  upward  till  thy  boughs  discern 
The  front  of  Sumner-place. 

This  fruit  of  thine  by  Love  is  blest, 

That  but  a  moment  lay 
Where  fairer  fruit  of  Love  may  rest 

Some  happy  future  day. 

I  kiss  it  twice,  I  kiss  it  thrice, 
The  warmth  it  thence  shall  win 

To  riper  life  may  magnetize 
The  baby-oak  within. 

But  thou,  while  kingdoms  overset, 
Or  lapse  from  hand  to  hand, 

Thy  leaf  shall  never  fail,  nor  yet 
Thine  acorn  in  the  land. 


May  never  saw  dismember  thee, 
Nor  wielded  axe  disjoint, 

That  art  the  fairest-spoken  tree 
From  here  to  Lizard-point. 

O  rock  upon  thy  towery  top 
All  throats  that  gurgle  sweet! 


236  THE  TALKING  OAK. 

All  starry  culmination  drop 
Balm-dews  to  bathe  thy  feet! 

All  grass  of  silky  feather  grow — 
And  while  he  sinks  or  swells 

The  full  south-breeze  around  thee  blow 
The  sound  of  minster  bells. 

The  fat  earth  feed  thy  branchy  root, 
That  under  deeply  strikes! 

The  northern  morning  o'er  thee  shoot, 
High  up,  in  silver  spikes! 

Nor  ever  lightning  char  thy  grain, 
But,  rolling  as  in  sleep, 

Low  thunders  bring  the  mellow  rain, 
That  makes  thee  broad  and  deep! 

And  hear  me  swear  a  solemn  oath, 
That  only  by  thy  side 

Will  I  to  Olive  plight  my  troth, 
And  gain  her  for  my  bride. 

And  when  my  marriage  morn  may  fall, 
She,  Dryad-like,  shall  wear 

Alternate  leaf  and  acorn-ball 
In  wreath  about  her  hair. 

And  I  will  work  in  prose  and  rhyme, 
And  praise  thee  more  in  both 

Than  bard  has  honor'd  beech  or  lime, 
Or  that  Thessalian  growth, 

In  which  the  swarthy  ringdoves  sat, 
And  mystic  sentence  spoke; 

And  more  than  England  honors  that, 
Thy  famous  brother-oak, 

Wherein  the  younger  Charles  abode 
Till  all  the  paths  were  dim, 

And  far  below  the  Roundhead  rode, 
And  humm'd  a  surly  hymn. 


LOVE  AND  DUTY.  'i37 


LOVE  AND  DUTT. 


F  love  that  never  found  his  earthly  close, 

What  sequel?     Streaming  eyes  and  breaking  hearts? 

Or  all  the  same  as  if  he  had  not  been? 

Ne*  so.     Shall  Error  in  the  round  of  time 
Still  father  Truth?     O  shall  the  braggart-shout 
For  some  blind  glimpse  of  freedom,  work  itself 
Thro'  madness,  hated  by  the  wise,  to  law 

System  and  empire?     Sin  itself  be  found 

The  cloudy  porch  oft  opening  on  the  sun  ? 

And  only  he,  this  wonder,  dead,  become 

Mere  highway  dust !  or  year  by  year  alone 

Sit  brooding  in  the  ruins  of  a  life, 

Nightmare  of  youth,  the  spectre  of  himself ! 

If  this  were  thus,  if  this,  indeed,  were  all, 
Better  the  narrow  brain,  the  stony  heart, 
The  staring  eye  glaz'd  o'er  with  sapless  days, 
The  long  mechanic  pacings  to  and  fro, 
The  set  gray  life,  and  apathetic  end. 
But  am  I  not  the  nobler  thro'  thy  love? 
O  three  times  less  unworthy!  likewise  thou 
Art  more  thro'  Love,  and  greater  than  thy  years. 
The  sun  will  run  his  orbit,  and  the  moon 
Her  circle.     Wait,  and  Love  himself  will  bring 
The  drooping  flower  of  knowledge  chang'd  to  fruit 
Of  wisdom.     Wait:  my  faith  is  large  in  Time, 
And  that  which  shapes  it  to  some  perfect  end. 

Will  some  one  say,  then  why  not  ill  for  good? 
Why  took  ye  not  your  pastime?     To  that  man 
My  work  shall  answer,  since  I  knew  the  right 
And  did  it;  for  a  man  is  not  as  God, 
But  then  most  Godlike  beirtg  most  a  man. 
— So  let  me  think  'tis  well  for  thee  and  me — 
111  fated  that  I  am,  what  lot  is  mine 
Whose  foresight  preaches  peace,  my  heart  so  slow 
To  feel  it!     For  how  hard  it  seem'd  to  me, 


238  LO VE  AND  DUTT. 


When  eyes,  love-languid  thro'  half-tears,  would  dwell 

One  earnest,  earnest  moment  upon  mine, 

Then  not  to  dare  to  see!  when  thy  low  voice, 

Faltering,  would  break  its  syllables,  to  keep 

My  own  full-tun'd, — hold  passion  in  a  leash, 

And  not  leap  forth  and  fall  about  thy  neck. 

And  on  thy  bosom,, (deep-desir'd  relief!) 

Rain  out  the  heavy  mist  of  tears,  that  weigh'd 

Upon  my  brain,  my  senses,  and  my  soul! 

For  Love  himself  took  part  against  himself 
To  warn  us  off,  and  Duty  lov'd  of  Love — 
Of  this  world's  curse, — belov'd  but  hated — came 
Like  Death  betwixt  thy  dear  embrace  and  mine, 
And  crying,  "Who  is  this?  behold  thy  bride," 
She  push'd  me  from  thee. 

If  the  sense  is  hard 
To  alien  ears,  I  did  not  speak  to  these — 
No,  not  to  thee,  but  to  myself  in  thee : 
Hard  is  my  doom  and  thine:  thou  knowest  it  all. 

Could  Love  part  thus?  was  it  not  well  to  speak, 
To  have  spoken  once?     It  could  not  but  be  well. 
The  slow  sweet  hours  that  bring  us  all  things  good, 
The  slow  sad  hours  that  bring  us  all  things  ill, 
And  all  good  things  from  evil,  brought  the  night 
In  which  we  sat  together  and  alone, 
And  to  the  want,  that  hollow'd  all  the  heart, 
Gave  utterance  by  the  yearning  of  an  eye, 
That  burn'd  upon  its  object  thro  such  tears 
As  flow  but  once  a  life. 

The  trance  gave  way 
To  those  caresses,  when  a  hundred  times 
In  that  last  kiss,  which  never  was  the  last, 
Farewell,  like  endless  welcome,  liv'd  and  died. 
Then  follow'd  counsel,  comfort,  and  the  words 
That  make  a  man  feel  strong  in  speaking  truth; 
Till  now  the  dark  was  worn,  and  overhead 
The  lights  of  sunset  and  of  sunrise  mix'd 
In  that  brief  night;  the  summer  night,  that  paus'd 
Among  her  stars  to  hear  us;  stars  that  hung 
Love-charm'd  to  listen :  all  the  wheels  of  Time 
Spun  round  in  station,  but  the  end  had  come. 


LOVE  AND  DUTY.  239 


O  then  like  those,  who  clench  their  nerves  to  rush 
Upon  their  dissolution,  we  two  rose, 
There — closing  like  an  individual  life — 
In  one  blind  cry  of  passion  and  of  pain, 
Like  bitter  accusation  ev'n  to  death, 
Caught  up  the  whole  of  love  and  utterM  it, 
And  bade  adieu  forever. 

Live — yet  live — 
Shall  sharpest  pathos  blight  us,  knowing  all 
Life  needs  for  life  is  possible  to  will — 
Live  happy;  tend  thy  flowers;  be  tended  by 
My  blessing!     Should  my  Shadow  cross  thy  thoughts 
Too  sadly  for  their  peace,  remand  it  thou 
For  calmer  hours  to  Memory's  darkest  hold, 
If  not  to  be  forgotten — not  at  once — 
Not  all  forgotten.     Should  it  cross  thy  dreams, 
O  might  it  come  like  one  that  looks  content, 
With  quiet  eyes  unfaithful  to  the  truth, 
And  point  thee  forward  to  a  distant  light, 
Or  seem  to  lift  a  burthen  from  thy  heart 
And  leave  thee  freer,  till  thou  wake  refreshed, 
When  the  low  matin-chirp  hath  grown 
Full  choir,  and  morning  driv'n  her  plough  of  pearl 
Far  furrowing  into  light  the  mounded  rack, 
Beyond  the  fair  green  field  and  eastern  sea. 


240 


THE  GOLDEN  TEAR. 


THE  GOLDEN  TEAR. 


ELL,  you  shall  have  that  song  which  Leonard  wrote: 
It  was  last  summer  on  a  tour  in  Wales: 
Old  James  was  with  me :  we  that  da}'  had  been 
Up  Snowdon,  and  I  wish'd  for  Leonard  there, 
And  found  him  in  Llamberis:  then  we  crost 
Between  the  lakes,  and  clamber'd  half  way  up 
The  counter  side;  and  that  same  song  of  his 
He  told  me;  for  I  banter'd  him,  and  swore 
They  said  he  lived  shut  up  within  himself, 
A  tongue-tied  Poet  in  the  feverous  days, 
That,  setting  the  how  much  before  the  how, 
Cry,  like  the  daughters  of  the  horse-leech,  "  Give, 
Cram  us  with  all,"  but  count  not  me  the  herd! 

To  which  "  They  call  me  what  they  will,"  he  said : 
"  But  I  was  born  too  late:  the  fair  new  forms, 
That  float  about  the  threshold  of  an  age, 
Like  truths  of  Science  waiting  to  be  caught — 
Catch  me  who  can,  ana  make  the  catcher  crown'd — 
Are  taken  by  the  forelock.     Let  it  be. 
But  if  you  care  indeed  to  listen,  hear 
These  measured  words,  my  work  of  yestermorn. 


"  We  sleep  and  wake  and  sleep,  but  all  things  move : 
The  Sun  flies  forward  to  his  brother  Sun ; 
The  dark  Earth  follows  wheel'd  in  her  ellipse; 
And  human  things  returning  on  themselves 
Move  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year. 

"  Ah,  tho'  the  times,  when  some  new  thought  can  bud, 
Are  but  as  poets'  seasons  when  they  flower, 
Yet  seas,  that  daily  gain  upon  the  shore, 
Have  ebb  and  flow  conditioning  their  march, 
And  slow  and  sure  comes  up  the  golden  year. 


"  When  wealth  no  more  shall  rest  in  mounded  heaps 
But  smit  with  freer  light  shall  slowly  melt 


TUB  GOLDEN  TEAR.  241 


In  many  streams  to  fatten  lower  lands, 

And  light  shall  spread,  and  man  be  liker  man 

Thro'  all  the  season  of  the  golden  year. 

"  Shall  eagles  not  be  eagles?  wrens  be  wrens? 
If  all  the  world  were  falcons,  what  of  that? 
The  wonder  of  the  eagle  were  the  less, 
But  he  not  less  the  eagle.     Happy  days 
Roll  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year. 


IS 


"  Fly,  happy  happy  sails  and  bear  the  Press; 
Fly  happy  with  the  mission  of  the  Cross; 
Knit  land  to  land,  and  blowing  havenward 
With  silks,  and  fruits,  and  spices,  clear  of  toll, 
Enrich  the  markets  of  the  golden  year. 

"  But  we  grow  old.     Ah!  when  shall  all  men's  good 
Be  each  man's  rule,  and  universal  Peace 
Lie  like  a  shaft  of  light  across  the  land, 
And  like  a  lane  of  beams  athwart  the  sea, 
Thro'  all  the  circle  of  the  golden  year?" 

Thus  far  he  flow'd,  and  ended ;  whereupon 
"Ah,  folly!"  in  mimic  cadence  answer'd  James — 
"  Ah,  folly!  for  it  lies  so  far  away, 
Not  in  our  time,  nor  in  our  children's  time, 
'Tis  like  the  second  world  to  us  that  live; 
'Twere  all  as  one  to  fix  our  hopes  on  Heaven 
As  on  this  vision  of  the  golden  year." 


242 


THE  GOLDEN  TEAR. 


With  that  he  struck  his  staff  against  the  rocks 
And  broke  it, — James, — you  know  him, — old,  but  full 
Of  force  and  choler,  and  firm  upon  his  feet, 
And  Hke  an  oaken  stock  in  winter  woods, 
O'erflourish'd  with  the  hoary  clematis: 
Then  added,  all  in  heat: 

"  What  stuff  is  this! 
Old  writers  push'd  the  happy  season  back, — 
The  more  fools  they, — we  forward:  dreamers  both: 
You  most,  that  in  an  age,  when  every  hour 
Must  sweat  her  sixty  minutes  to  the  death, 
Live  on,  God  love  us,  as  if  the  seedsman,  rapt 
Upon  the  teeming  harvest,  should  not  dip 
His  hand  into  the  bag:  but  well  I  know 
That  unto  him  who  works,  and  feels  he  works, 
This  same  grand  year  is  ever  at  the  doors." 


He  spoke;  and,  high  above,  I  heard  them  blast 
The  steep  slate-quarry,  and  the  great  echo  flap 
And  buffet  round  the  hills  from  bluff  to  bluff. 


utrssEs. 


243 


ULTSSES. 


§pT  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags, 
Matched  with  an  aged  wife,  1  mete  and  dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  Ravage  race, 
That  hoard,    and    fdeep,   and    feed,    and  know 

not  me. 
I  cannot  rest  from  travel:   I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees:  all  times  I  have  enjoy'd 
K  Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both   with  those 
»?J  That  loved  me,  and  alone;  on  shore,  and  when 
jjj^jf  Thro' scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
*&7&.     Wxt  the  dim  sea:   1  am  become  a  name; 
»fl£  For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 

Much  have  I  seen  and  known;  cities  of  men 

And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments, 

Myself  not  least,  but  honor'd  of  them  all; 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 

Far  i.ii  thi-  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 

I  am  a  part  of  all  that  1  have  met; 

\\t  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 

Gleams  that  untravell'd  world,  whose   margin  fades 

Forever  and  forever  when   I  move. 

How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 

To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in   nsr! 

As  though  to  breat lie  were  life.      Life  piled  on  life 

Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 

Little  remains:  but  every  hour  is  saved 

From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 

A  bringer  of  new  things;  and  vile  it  were 

For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 

To  follow  knowledge,  like  a  sinking  star. 

Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 


This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 


244 


ULTSSES. 


A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 

Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 

Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 

Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 

In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 

Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 

When  I  am  gone.      He  works  his  work,  I  mine. 


There  lies  the  port;  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail: 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.      My  mariners, 
Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and  thought  with  me- 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  oppos'd 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads — you  and  I  are  old; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil ; 
Death  closes  all:  but  something  ere  the  end, 


ULrssES.  245 


Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 

Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 

The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks: 

The  long  day  wanes:  the  slow  moon  climbs:  the  deep 

Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come,  my  friends, 

'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 

Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 

The  sounding  furrows,  for  my  purpose  holds 

To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 

Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I   die. 

It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down: 

It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 

And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew, 

Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides;  and  tho' 

We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 

Moved  earth  and  heaven;  that  which  we  are,  we  are; 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 

Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 

To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 


•- >$=:*3;£*s3*~ 


COME  NOT,   WHEN  I  AM  DEAD, 


OME  not,  when  I  am  dead, 

To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my  grave, 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head, 
And  vex  the  unhappy  dust  thou  woulcUt  not  save. 
There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the  plover  cry; 
But  thou,  go  by. 

Child,  if  it  were  thy  error  or  thy  crime 

I  care  no  longer,  being  all  unblest: 
Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I  a\u  sick  of  Time, 

And  I  desire  to  rest. 
Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me  where  I  lie: 
Go  by,  go  by. 


246 


LOCKSLET  HALL. 


LOCKS  LET  HALL, 


OMRADES,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet  'tis  early 

morn ; 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound  upon   the 

bugle  horn. 

'Tis  the  place,  and   all  around   it,   as   of  old,  the  curlews 
call, 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over  Locksley  Hall; 

^';  Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks  the  sandy  tracts, 
And  the  hollow  ocean  ridges  roaring  into  cataracts. 

^P»£     Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I  went  t<>  rest, 
"^f^Jfr     Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the  West. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro'  the  mellow  shade, 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a  silver  braid. 


Here  about  the  beach  I  wander'd,  nourishing  a  youth  sublime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long  result  of  Time; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruitful  land  reposed; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise  that  it  closed: 


When  [  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye  could  see; 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be. — 

In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's  breast; 
In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself  another  crest; 

In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnish'd  dove; 

In  the  Spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love. 


Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than  should  be  for  one  so  young, 
And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute  observance  hung. 


LOCKS  LET  HALL. 


247 


And  I  said,  "  My  cousin  Amy, speak,  and  speak  the  truth  to  me, 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being  sets  to  thee." 


*J  7/ 


On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  color  and  a  light, 
As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the  northern  night. 

And  she  turn'd — her  bosom  shaken  with  a  sudden  storm  of  sighf 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of  hazel  eyes — 


Saying,  "I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they  should  do  me  wrong;" 
Saying,  "  Dost   thou   love   me,  cousin?"   weeping,   "  I  have  loved  thee 
Ion-." 


Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn'd  it  in  his  glowing  hands' 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might, 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass'd  in  music  out  of  sight. 


Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the  copses  ring, 
And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with  the  fullness  of  the  Spring. 


248 


LOCKS  LET  HALL. 


Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips. 

O  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted!     O  my  Amy,  mine  no  more! 
O  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland!     O  the  barren,  barren  shore! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs  have  sung, 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a  shrewish  tongue! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy? — having  known  me — to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower  heart  than  mine! 

Yet  it  shall  be:  thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day  by  day, 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sympathize  with  clay. 


As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is:  thou  art  mated  with  a  clown, 

And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee  down. 


LOCKS  LET  HALL.  249 


He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have  spent  its  novel  force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his   horse. 

What  is  this?  his  eyes  are  heavy:   think  not  they  are  glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him:  it  is  thy  duty:  kiss  him:  take  his  hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  thy  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is  overwrought; 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with  thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to  understand — 
Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho'  I  slew  thee  with  my  hand ! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from  the  heart's  disgrace, 
Roll'd  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in  a  last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the  strength  of  youthi 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the  living  truth! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest  Nature's  rule! 
Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straiten'd  forehead  of  the  fool! 

Well — -'tis  well  that  I  should  bluster! — Hadst  thou  less  unworthy  proved- 
Would  to  God — for  I  had  loved  thee  more  than  ever  wife  was  loved! 


Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which  bears  but  bitter  fruit? 
I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho*  my  heart  be  at  the  root. 

er,  tho'  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length  of  years  should  come 
As  the  many-winter'd  crow  that  leads  the  clanging  rookery  home. 

Where  is  comfort?  in  division  of  the  records  of  the  mind? 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  I  knew  her,  kind? 

I  remember  one  that  perish'd:  sweetly  did  she  speak  and  move: 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look  at  was  to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the  love  she  bore? 
No — she  never  loved  me  truly :  love  is  love  forevermore. 

Comfort?  comfort  scorn 'd  of  devils!  this  is  truth  the  poet  sings, 
That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things. 


250 


LOCKS  LET  HALL. 


Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy  heart  be  put  to  proof, 
In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  when  the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou  art  staring  at  the  wall, 
Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to  his  drunken  sleep, 
To  thy  widow'd  marriage  pillows,  to  the  tears  that  thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  "  Never,  never,"  whisper'd  by  the  phantom  years, 
And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing  of  thine  ears; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient  kindness  on  thy  pain. 
Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow:  get  thee  to  thy  rest  again. 


Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace:  for  a  tender  voice  will  cry 
'Tis  a  purer  life  than  thine;  a  lip  to  drain  thy  trouble  dry. 


LOCKSLET  HALL.  251 


Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down:  my  latest  rival  brings  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the  mother's  breast. 

O  the  child  too,  clothes  the  father  with  a  dearness  not  his  due, 
Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his:  it  will  be  worthy  of  the  two. 

0  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty  part, 

With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down  a  daughter's  heart. 

u  They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings — she  herself  was  not  exempt- 
Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer'd" — Perish  in  thy  self-contempt! 

Overlive  it — lower  yet — be  happy!  wherefore  should  1  care? 

1  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  lighting  upon  days  like  these? 
Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to  golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  throng'd  with  suitors,  all  the  markets  overflow. 
I  have  but  an  angry  fancy:  what  is  that  which  I  should  do? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foeman's  ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  roll'd  in  vapor,  and  the  winds  are  laid  with  sound 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt  that  Honor  feels, 
And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at  each  other's  heels. 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness?     I  will  turn  that  earlier  page. 
Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O  thou  wondrous  Mother- Age! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt  before  the  strife, 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the  tumult  of  my  life; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  coming  years  would  yield, 
Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves  his  father's  field, 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near  and  nearer  drawn, 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like  a  dreary  dawn ; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone  before  him  then, 
Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among  the  throngs  of  men; 


252  LOCKSLET  HALL. 


Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reaping  something  new: 
That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the  things  that  they  shall  do: 

For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye  could  see, 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be ; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of  magic  sails, 
Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with  costly  bales; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there  rain'd  a  ghastly  dew 
From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in  the  central  blue; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south-wind  rushing  warm. 
With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  thro'  the  thunder-storm ; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer,  and  the  battle-flags  were  furPd 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a  fretful  realm  in  awe, 
And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  universal  law. 

So  I  triumph'd,  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro'  me  left  me  dry, 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with  the  jaundiced  eye; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are  out  of  joint, 
Science  moves,  but  slowly,  slowly,  creeping  on  from  point  to  point : 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion,  creeping  nigher, 
Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a  slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs, 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen'd  with  the  process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his  youthful  joys, 
Tho'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  forever  like  a  boy's? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  I  linger  on  the  shore, 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more  and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he  bears  a  laden  breast, 
Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  stillness  of  his  rest. 


LOCKS  LET  HALL.  253 


Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on  the  bugle-horn, 
They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target  for  their  scorn: 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a  mouider'd  string? 
I  am  sham'd  thro'  all  my  nature  to  have  lov'd  so  slight  a  thing. 


Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness!  woman's  pleasure,  woman's  pain- 
Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded  in  a  shallower  brain: 


Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions,  match'd  with  mine, 
Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water  unto  wine — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing.     Ah,  for  some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life  began  to  beat; 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my  father  evil-starr'd ; — 
I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish  uncle's  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit — there  to  wander  far  away, 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons  and  happy  skies, 
Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster,  knots  of  Paradise. 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  a  European  flag, 

Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland,  swings  the  trailer  from  the  crag; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossom'd  bower,  hangs  the  heavy- fruited  tree — 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple  spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than  in  this  march  of  mind, 
In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramped  no  longer  shall  have  scope  and  breathing-space ; 
I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinew'd,  they  shall  dive,  and  they  shall  run, 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their  lances  in  the  sun; 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the  rainbows  of  the  brooks, 
Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable  books— 


25-i  LOCKS  LET  HALL. 


Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy!  but  I  know  my  words  are  wild, 
But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the  Christian  child. 

/,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our  glorious  gains, 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast  with  lower  pains! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage — what  to  me  were  sun  or  clime? 
I,  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of  time — 

I,  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish  one  by  one, 

Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like  Joshua's  moon  in  Ajalon! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.     Forward,  forward  let  us  range. 
Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change^ 

Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the  younger  day: 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay. 

Mother-Age  (for  mine  I  knew  not)  help  me  as  when  life  begun: 

Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the  lightnings,  weigh  the  sun— 

O,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro'  all  my  fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to  Locksley  Hall! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me  the  roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  blackening  over  heath  and  holt, 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a  thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail,  or  fire  or  snow; 
For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and  I  go. 


GODIVA. 


255 


GODIVA. 


*S#jtf 


'    WAITED  for  the  train  at  Coventry; 
I  hung  with  grooms  and  porters  on  the  bridge, 


"  *i-4£  f  ^J^-'t '  «(y  V  ancient  legend  into  this : — 


To  watch  the  three  tall  spires /  arW  there  I  shap\i 


gj»       Not  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time, 
New  men,  that  in  the  Hying  of  a  wheel 
C  ry  down  the  past,  not  only  we,  that  prate 
Of  rights  and  wrongs,  have  lov'd  the  people  well, 
And  loath'd  to  see  them  overtax'd;  but  she 
Did  more,  and  underwent,  and  overcame, 
The  woman  of  a  thousand  summers  back, 
Godiva,  wife  to  that  grim  Earl,  who  rul'd 
In  Coventry:  for  when  he  laid  a  tax 
Upon  his  town,  and  all  the  mothers  brought 
Their  children,  clamoring,  "  If  we  pay,  we  starve!  " 
She  sought  her  lord,  and  found  him,  where  he  strode 
About  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone, 
His  beard  a  foot  before  him,  and  his  hair 
A  yard  behind.     She  told   him  of  their  teass, 
And  pray'd  him,  "  If  they  pay  this  tax,  they  starve." 
Whereat  he  stared,  replying,  half-amaz'd, 
u  You  would  not  let  your  little  finger  ache 
For  such  as  these?" — "  But  I  would  die,"  said  she. 
He  laugh'd,  and  swore  by  Peter  and  by  Paul; 
Then  fillipp'd  at  the  diamond  in  her  ear; 
"  O  ay,  ay,  ay,  you  talk?" — "  Alas!  "  she  said 
"  But  prove  me  what  it  is  I  would  not  do." 
And  from  a  heart  as  rough  as  Esau's  hand, 
"He  answerVl,  u  Ride  you  naked  thro'  the  town, 
And  I  repeal  it;"  and  nodding,  ;is  in  scorn, 
He  parted,  with  great  strides  among  his  dogs. 


So  left  alone,  the  passions  of  her  mind, 
As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift  and  blow, 
Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour, 
Till  pity  won.     She  sent  a  herald  forth, 
And  bade  him  cry,  with  sound  of  trumpet,  all 


256 


GODIVA. 


The  hard  condition ;  but  that  she  would  loose 
The  people :  therefore,  as  they  lov'd  her  well, 
From  then  till  noon  no  foot  should  pace  the  street, 
No  eye  look  down,  she  passing;  but  that  all 
Should  keep  within,  door  shut,  and   window  barr'd. 


Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower,  and  there 
Unclasp'd  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt, 
The  grim  Earl's  gift;  but  ever  at  a  breath 
She  linger'd,  looking  like  a  summer  moon 
Half-dipt  in  cloud:  anon  she  shook  her  head, 
And  shower'd  the  rippled  ringlets  to  her  knee; 
Unclad  herself  in  haste;  adown  the  stair 
Stole  on,  and  like  a  creeping  sunbeam,  slid 
From  pillar  unto  pillar,  until  she  reach'd 
The  gateway;  there  she  found  her  palfrey  trapt 
In  purple  blazon'd  with  armorial  gold. 


GOD  IV A.  257 


Then  she  rode  forth,  cloth'd  on  with  chastity : 
The  deep  air  listened  round  her  as  she  rode, 
And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed  for  fear. 
The  little  wide-mouth'd  heads  upon  the  spout 
Had  cunning  eyes  to  see:  the  barking  cur 
Made  her  cheek  flame:  her  palfrey's  footfall  shot 
Light  horrors  thro'  her  pulses:  the  blind  walls 
Were  full  of  chinks  and  holes;  and  overhead 
Fantastic  gables,  crowding,  stared:  but  she 
Not  less  thro1  all  bore  up,  till,  last,  she  saw 
The  white-flower'd  elder-thicket  from  the  field 
Gleam  thro'  the  Gothic  archways  in  the  wall. 

Then  she  rode  back,  clothed  on  with  chastity : 
And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thankless  earth, 
The  fatal  by- word  of  all  years  to  come, 
Boring  a  little  auger  hole  in  fear, 
Peep'd — but  his  eyes,  before  they  had  their  will, 
Were  shrivell'd  into  darkness  in  his  head, 
And  dropt  before  him.     So  the  Powers,  who  wait 
On  noble  deeds,  cancell'd  a  sense  misused ; 
And  she,  that  knew  not,  pass'd:  and  all  at  once, 
With  twelve  great  shocks  of  sound,  the  shameless  noon 
Was  clash'd  and  hammerM  from  a  hundred  towers, 
One  after  one :  but  even  then  she  gain'd 
Her  bower;  whence  reissuing,  robed  and  crown'd, 
To  meet  her  lord,  she  took  the  tax  away, 
And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name. 


258 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


THE  TWO   VOICES. 


STILL  small  voice  spake  unto  me, 
"  Thou  art  so  full  of  misery, 
Were  it  not  better  not  to  be  ?  " 

Then  to  the  still  small  voice  I  said; 
"  Let  me  not  cast  in  endless  shade 
What  is  so  wonderfully  made." 

To  which  the  voice  did  urge  reply: 

"  To-day  I  saw  the  dragon-fly 

Come  from  the  wells  where  he  did  lie. 

"  An  inner  impulse  rent  the  veil 
Of  his  old  husk :  from  head  to  tail 
Came  out  clear  plates  of  sapphire  mail. 


"  He  dried  his  wings :  like  gauze  they  grew 
Thro'  crofts  and  pastures  wet  with  dew 
A  living  flash  of  light  he  flew." 

I  said,  "  When  first  the  world  began, 
Young  Nature  thro'  five  cycles  ran, 
And  in  the  sixth  she  moulded  man. 


"  She  gave  him  mind,  the  lordliest 
Proportion,  and,  above  the  rest, 
Dominion  in  the  head  and  breast." 


Thereto  the  silent  voice  replied : 

"  Self-blinded  are  you  by  your  pride : 

Look  up  thro'  night:  the  world  is  wide. 


"  This  truth  within  thy  mind  rehearse, 

That  in  a  boundless  universe 

Is  boundless  better,  boundless  worse* 


THE  TWO   VOICES.  259 


"  Think  you  this  mould  of  hopes  and  fears 
Could  find  no  statelier  than  his  peers 
In  yonder  hundred  million  spheres?  * 

It  spake,  moreover,  in  my  mind, 

"  Tho'  thou  wert  scattered  to  the  wind, 

Yet  is  there  plenty  of  the  kind." 

Then  did  my  response  clearer  fall : 
"  No  compound  of  this  earthly  ball 
Is  like  another,  all  in  all." 

To  which  he  answer'd  scoffingly: 
"  Good  soul !  suppose  I  grant  it  thee 
Who'll  weep  for  thy  deficiency? 

"  Or  will  one  beam  be  less  intense, 

When  thy  peculiar  difference 

Is  cancelled  in  the  world  of  sense?  " 

I  would  have  said,  "  Thou  canst  not  know." 
But  my  full  heart,  that  work'd  below, 
Rain'd  thro'  my  sight  its  overflow. 

Again  the  voice  spake  unto  me: 
"  Thou  art  so  steep'd  in  misery, 
Surely  'twere  better  not  to  be. 

"  Thine  anguish  will  not  let  thee  sleep, 

Nor  any  train  of  reason  keep: 

Thou  canst  not  think,  but  thou  wilt  weep." 

I  said,  "  The  years  with  change  advance: 
If  I  make  dark  my  countenance, 
I  shut  my  life  from  happier  chance. 

"  Some  turn  this  sickness  yet  might  take, 
Ev'n  yet."     But  he:     "  What  drug  can  make 
A  withered  palsy  cease  to  shake  ? " 

I  wept,  "  The*  I  should  die,  I  know 
That  all  about  the  thorn  will  blow 
In  tufts  of  rosy-tinted  snow ; 


260  THE  TWO   VOICES. 


"  And  men,  thro'  novel  spheres  of  thought 
Still  moving  after  truth  long  sought, 
Will  learn  new  things  when  I  am  not." 

"  Yet,"  said  the  secret  voice,  "  some  time, 
Sooner  or  later,  will  gray  prime 
Make  thy  grass  hoar  with  early  rime. 

"  Not  less  swift  souls  that  yearn  for  light. 

Rapt  after  heaven's  starry  flight, 

Would  sweep  the  tracts  of  day  and  night. 

u  Not  less  the  bee  would  range  her  cells, 
The  furzy  prickle  fire  the  dells, 
The  foxglove  cluster  dappled  bells." 

I  said  that  "all  the  years  invent; 
Each  month  is  various  to  present 
The  world  with  some  development. 

"  Were  this  not  well,  to  bide  mine  hour, 
Tho'  watching  from  a  ruin'd  tower 
How  grows  the  day  of  human' power?" 

"  The  highest-mounted  mind,"  he  said, 
"  Still  sees  the  sacred  morning  spread 
The  silent  summit  overhead. 

"  Will  thirty  seasons  render  plain 
Those  lonely  lights  that  still  remain, 
Just  breaking  over  land  and  main? 

"  Or  make  that  morn,  from  his  cold  crown 
And  crystal  silence  creeping  down, 
Flood  with  full  daylight  glebe  and  town? 

"  Forerun  thy  peers,  thy  time,  and  let 

Thy  feet,  millenniums  hence,  be  set 

In  midst  of  knowledge,  dream'd  not  yet. 

"  Thou  hast  not  gained  a  real  height, 
Nor  art  thou  nearer  to  the  light, 
Because  the  scale  is  infinite. 


THE  TWO   VOICES.  261 


"  'Twere  better  not  to  breathe  or  speak, 
Than  cry  for  strength,  remaining  weak, 
And  seem  to  find,  but  still  to  seek. 

"  Moreover,  but  to  seem  to  find 

Asks  what  thou  lackest,  thought  resign'd, 

A  healthy  frame,  a  quiet  mind." 

I  said,  u  When  I  am  gone  away, 
4  He  dared  not  tarry,1   men  will  say, 
Doing  dishonor  to  my  clay." 

"  This  is  more  vile,"  he  made  reply, 

"  To  breathe  and  loathe,  to  live  and  sigh, 

Than  once  from  dread  of  pain  to  die. 

"  Sick  art  thou —  a  divided  will 
Still  heaping  on  the  fear  of  ill 
The  fear  of  men,  a  coward  still. 

"  Do  men  love  thee?     Art  thou  so  bound 
To  men,  that  how  thy  name  may  sound 
Will  vex  thee  lying  underground? 

"  The  memory  of  the  wither'd  leaf 
In  endless  time  is  scarce  more  brief 
Than  of  the  garner'd  Autumn-sheaf. 

"  Go,  vexed  Spirit,  sleep  in  trust; 
The  right  ear,  that  is  fiil'd  with  dust, 
Hears  little  of  the  false  or  just." 

-  Hard  ta^k,  to  pluck  resolve,"  I  cried, 
"  From  emptiness  and  the  waste  wide 
Of  that  abyss,  or  scornful  pride! 

«  Nav — rather  yet  that  I  could  raise 
One  hope  that  wanrTd  me  in  the  days 
While  still  I  yearn'd  for  human  praise. 

"  When,  wide  in  soul  and  bold  of  tongue, 
Among  the  tents  I  paus'd  and  sung 
The  distant  battle  flashed  and  rung. 


262  THE  TWO   VOICES. 


"  I  sung  the  joyful  Paean  clear, 
And,  sitting,  burnish'd  without  fear 
The  brand,  the  buckler,  and  the  spear — 

"  Waiting  to  strive  a  happy  strife, 
To  war  with  falsehood  to  the  knife, 
And  not  to  lose  the  good  of  life — 

"  Some  hidden  principle  to  move, 

To  put  together,  part  and  prove, 

And  mete  the  bounds  of  hate  and  love — 

"  As  far  as  might  be,  to  carve  out 
Free  space  for  every  human  doubt, 
That  the  whole  mind  might  orb  about — 

"  To  search  thro'  all  I  felt  or  saw, 
The  springs  of  life,  the  depths  of  awe, 
And  reach  the  law  within  the  law: 

"  At  least,  not  rotting  like  a  weed, 
But,  having  sown  some  generous  seed, 
Fruitful  of  further  thought  and  deed, 

"  To  pass,  when  Life  her  light  withdraws, 
Not  void  of  righteous  self-applause, 
Nor  in  a  merely  selfish  cause — 

"  In  some  good  cause,  not  in  mine  own, 
To  perish,  wept  for,  honor'd,  known, 
And  like  a  warrior  overthrown ; 

u  Whose  eyes  are  dim  with  glorious  tears, 
When,  soil'd  with  noble  dust,  he  hears 
His  country's  war-song  thrill  his  ears: 

"  Then  dying  of  a  mortal  stroke, 
What  time  the  foeman's  line  is  broke, 
And  all  the  war  is  roll'd  in  smoke." 

"  Yea!"  said  the  voice,  "  thy  dream  was  good, 
While  thou  abodest  in  the  bud. 
It  was  the  stirring  of  the  blood. 


THE  TWO   VOICES.  263 


"If  Nature  put  not  forth  her  power 
About  the  openiug  of  the  flower, 
Who  is  it  that  could  live  an  hour? 

"  Then  comes  the  check,  the  change,  the  fall, 
Pain  rises  up,  old  pleasures  pall. 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all. 

"  Yet  hadst  thou,  thro'  enduring  pain, 
Link'd  month  to  month  with  such  a  chain 
Of  knitted  purport,  all  were  vain. 

"  Thou  hadst  not  between  death  and  birth 
Dissolv'd  the  riddle  of  the  earth. 
So  were  thy  labor  little  worth. 

"  That  men  with  knowledge  merely  play'd. 
I  told  thee — hardly  nigher  made, 
Tho'  scaling  slow  from  grade  to  grade: 

"Much  less  this  dreamer,  deaf  and  blind, 
Named  man,  may  hope  some  truth  to  find, 
That  bears  relation  to  the  mind. 

"  For  every  worm  beneath  the  moon 
Draws  different  threads,  and  late  and  soon 
Spins,  toiling  out  his  own  cocoon. 

"Cry,  faint  not:  either  Truth  is  born 
Beyond  the  polar  gleam  forlorn, 
Or  in  the  gateways  of  the  morn. 

"  Cry,  faint  not,  climb:  the  summits  slope 
Beyond  the  furthest  flights  of  hope, 
Wrapt  in  dense  cloud  from  base  to  cope. 

"  Sometimes  a  little  corner  shines, 

As  over  rainy  mist  inclines 

A  gleaming  crag  with  belts  of  pines. 

"  I  will  go  forward,  sayest  thou, 
I  >hall  nut  fail  to  find  her  now. 
Look  up,  the  fold  is  on  her  brow. 


264  THE  TWO   VOICES. 


"  If  straight  thy  track,  or  if  oblique, 

Thou  knowest  not.     Shadows  thou  dost  strike, 

Embracing  cloud,  Ixion-like; 

"  And  owning  but  a  little  more 
Than  beasts,  abidest  lame  and  poor, 
Calling  thyself  a  little  lower 

"Than  angels.     Cease  to  wail  and  brawl! 
Why  inch  by  inch  to  darkness  crawl? 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all." 

"  O  dull,  one-sided  voice,"  said  I, 
"  Wilt  thou  make  everything  a  lie, 
To  flatter  me  that  I  may  die? 

"  I  know  that  age  to  age  succeeds, 
Blowing  a  noise  of  tongues  and  deeds, 
A  dust  of  systems  and  of  creeds. 

"  I  cannot  hide  that  some  have  striven, 
Achieving  calm,  to  whom  was  given 
The  joy  that  mixes  man  with  Heaven : 

"  Who,  rowing  hard  against  the  stream, 
Saw  distant  gates  of  Eden  gleam, 
And  did  not  dream  it  was  a  dream ; 

"  But  heard,  by  secret  transport  led, 
Ev'n  in  the  charnels  of  the  dead, 
The  murmur  of  the  fountain-head — 

"  Which  did  accomplish  their  desire, 
Bore  and  forebore,  and  did  not  tire, 
Like  Stephen,  an  unquenched  fire. 

"  He  heeded  not  reviling  tones, 

Nor  sold  his  heart  to  idle  moans, 

Tho7  curs'd  and  scorn'd,  and  bruis'd  with  stones: 

"  But  looking  upward,  full  of  grace, 
He  pray'd,  and  from  a  happy  place 
God's  glory  smote  him  on  the  face." 


THE  TWO  VOICES.  -to 


The  sullen  answer  slid  betwixt: 

"  Not  that  the  grounds  of  hope  were  fix'd, 

The  elements  were  kindlier  mix'd." 

I  said,  "  I  toil  beneath  the  curse, 
But,  knowing  not  the  universe, 
I  fear  to  slide  from  bad  to  worse. 

"  And  that,  in  seeking  to  undo 
One  riddle,  and  to  find  the  true, 
I  knit  a  hundred  others  new : 

"  Or  that  this  anguish  fleeting  hence, 
Unmanacled  from  bonds  of  sense, 
Be  fixM  and  froz'n  to  permanence: 

"  For  I  go,  weak  from  suffering  here: 
Naked  I  go,  and  void  of  cheer: 
What  is  it  that  I  may  not  fear?" 

"  Consider  well,"  the  voice  replied, 

"  His  face,  that  two  hours  since  hath  died: 

Wilt  thou  find  passion,  pain,  or  pride? 

"  Will  he  obey  when  one  commands? 
Or  answer  should  one  press  his  hands? 
He  answers  not,  nor  understands. 

"  His  palms  are  folded  on  his  breast: 
There  is  no  other  thing  express'd 
But  long  disquiet  merg'd  in  rest. 

"  His  lips  are  very  mild  and  meek : 
Tho'  one  should  smite  him  on  the  cheek, 
Or  on  the  mouth,  he  will  not  speak. 

"  His  little  daughter,  whose  sweet  face 
He  kiss'd,  taking  his  last  embrace, 
Becomes  dishonor  to  her  race — 

"  His  sons  grow  up  that  bear  his  name, 
Some  grow  to  honor,  some  to  shame, — 
But  he  is  chill  to  praise  or  blame. 


266  THE  TWO   VOICES. 


"  He  will  not  hear  the  north-wind  rave, 
Nor,  moaning,  household  shelter  crave 
From  winter  rains  that  beat  his  grave. 

"  High  up  the  vapors  fold  and  swim : 
About  him  broods  the  twilight  dim : 
The  place  he  knew  forgetteth  him." 

"  If  all  be  dark,  vague  voice,"  I  said, 

"  These  things  are  wrapped  in  doubt  and  dread, 

Nor  canst  thou  show  the  dead  are  dead. 

"  The  sap  dries  up ;  the  plant  declines. 

A  deeper  tale  my  heart  divines. 

Know  I  not  Death?  the  outward  signs? 

"  I  found  him  when  my  years  were  few ; 
A  shadow  on  the  graves  I  knew, 
And  darkness  in  the  village  yew. 

"From  grave  to  grave  the  shadow  crept: 
In  her  still  place  the  morning  wept: 
Touch'd  by  his  feet  the  daisy  slept. 

"  The  simple  senses  crown'd  his  head : 
'  Omega!  thou  art  Lord,'  they  said, 
'  We  find  no  motion  in  the  dead.' 

"  Why,  if  man  rot  in  dreamless  ease, 
Should  that  plain  fact,  as  taught  by  these, 
Not  make  him  sure  that  he  shall  cease? 

"  Who  forged  that  other  influence, 

That  heat  of  inward  evidence, 

By  which  he  doubts  against  the  sense? 

"  He  owns  the  fatal  gift  of  eyes, 
That  read  his  spirit  blindly  wise, 
Not  simple  as  a  thing  that  dies. 

"  Here  sits  he  shaping  wings  to  fly: 
His  heart  forebodes  a  mystery : 
He  names  the  name  Eternity. 


THE  TWO   VOICES.  267 


"  That  type  of  Perfect  in  his  mind 
In  Nature  can  he  nowhere  find. 
He  sows  himself  on  every  wind. 

"  He  seems  to  hear  a  Heavenly  Friend, 
And  thro'  thick  veils  to  apprehend 
A  labor  working  to  an  end. 

"  The  end  and  the  beginning  vex 

11  is  reason;  many  things  perplex, 

With  motions,  checks,  and  counter-checks. 

"  He  knows  a  baseness  in  his  blood 

At  such  strange  war  with  something  good, 

He  may  not  do  the  thing  he  would. 

u  Heaven  opens  inward,  chasms  yawn, 
Vast  images  in  glimmering  dawn, 
Half-shown,  are  broken  and  withdrawn. 

"Ah!  sure  within  him   and  without, 
Could  his  dark  wisdom  find  it  out, 
There  must  be  answer  to  his  doubt. 

"  But  thou  canst  answer  not  again. 
With  thine  own  weapon  art  thou  slain. 
Or  thou  wilt  answer  but  in  vain. 

"  The  doubt  would  rest,  I  dare  not  solve 
In  the  same  circle  we  revolve. 
Assurance  only  breeds  resolve." 

As  when  a  billow,  blown  against, 

PalU  back,  the  voice  with  which  I  fene'd 

A  little  ceas'd,  but  recommene'd: 

"  Where  wert  thou  when  thy  father  playM 
In  His  free  field,  and  pastime  made, 
A  merry  boy  in  sun  and  shade? 

"  A  merry  boy  they  call'd  him  then. 
He  sat  upon  the  knees  of  men 
In  days  that  never  come  again. 


2G8  THE  TWO  VOICES. 


"  Before  the  little  ducts  began 

To  feed  thy  bones  with  lime,  and  ran 

Their  course,  till  thou  wert  also  man: 

"  Who  took  a  wife,  who  rear'd  his  race, 
Whose  wrinkles  gather'd  on  his  face, 
Whose  troubles  number  with  his  days: 

"  A  life  of  nothings,  nothing-worth, 
From  that  first  nothing  ere  his  birth 
To  that  last  nothing  under  earth !  " 

"  These  words,"  I  said,  "  are  like  the  rest, 
No  certain  clearness,  but  at  best 
A  vague  suspicion  of  the  breast: 

"  But  if  I  grant,  thou  might'st  defend 
The  thesis  which  thy  words  intend — 
That  to  begin  implies  to  end; 

"  Yet  how  should  I  for  certain  hold, 
Because  my  memory  is  so  cold, 
That  I  first  was  in  human  mould? 

"  I  cannot  make  this  matter  plain, 
But  I  would  shoot,  howe'erin  vain, 
A  random  arrow  from  the  brain. 

"  It  may  be  that  no  life  is  found, 
Which  only  to  one  engine  bound 
Falls  off,  but  cycles  always  round. 

"  As  old  mythologies  relate, 

Some  draught  of  Lethe  might  await 

The  slipping  thro'  from  state  to  state. 

"  As  here  we  find  in  trances,  men 
Forget  the  dream  that  happens  then, 
Until  they  fall  in  trance  again. 

"  So  might  we,  if  our  state  were  such 

As  one  before,  remember  much, 

For  those  two  likes  might  meet  and  touch. 


THE  TWO  VOICES.  269 


"  But,  if  I  lapsed  from  nobler  place, 
Some  legend  of  a  fallen  race 
Alone  might  hint  of  my  disgrace; 

"  Some  vague  emotion  of  delight 

In  gazing  up  an  Alpine  height, 

Some  yearning  towards  the  lamps  of  night 

"  Or  if  thro'  lower  lives  I  came — 
Tho'  all  experience  past  became 
Consolidate  in  mind  and  frame — 

"  I  might  forget  my  weaker  lot; 
For  is  not  our  first  year  forgot? 
The  haunts  of  memory  echo  not. 

"  And  men,  whose  reason  long  was  blind, 
From  cells  of  madness  unconfined, 
Oft  lose  whole  years  of  darker  mind. 

"  Much  more,  if  first  I  floated  free, 
As  naked  essence,  must  I  be, 
Incompetent  of  memory : 

"  For  memory  dealing  but  with  time, 
And  he  with  matter,  could  she  climb 
Beyond  her  own  material  prime? 

"  Moreover,  something  is  or  seems, 
That  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams, 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams — 

"  Of  something  felt,  like  something  here: 
Of  something  done,  I  know  not  where; 
Such  as  no  language  may  declare." 

The  still  voice  laugh'd.     "  I  talk,"  said  he, 
"  Not  with  thy  dreams.     Suffice  it  thee 
Thy  pain  is  a  reality." 

"  But  thou,"  said  I,  "hast  miss'd  thy  mark, 
Who  sought'st  to  wreck  my  mortal  ark, 
By  making  all  the  horizon  dark. 


?70  THE  TWO  VOICES. 


"  Why  not  set  forth,  if  I  should  do 
This  rashness,  that  which  might  ensue 
With  this  old  soul  in  organs  new? 

"  Whatever  crazy  sorrow  saith, 

No  life  that  hreathes  with  human  breath 

Has  ever  truly  long'd  for  death. 

"  'Tis  life,  whereof  our  nerves  are  scant, 

0  life,  not  death,  for  which  we  pant; 
More  life,  and  fuller,  that  I  want." 

1  ceased,  and  sat  as  one  forlorn, 
Then  said  the  voice,  in  quiet  scorn : 
"  Behold,  it  is  the  Sabbath  morn." 

And  I  arose,  and  I  released 

The  casement,  and  the  light  increased 

With  freshness  in  the  dawning  east. 

Like  soften'd  airs  that  blowing  steal, 
When  meres  begin  to  uncongeal, 
The  sweet  church  bells  began  to  peal. 

On  to  God's  house  the  people  prest: 
Passing  the  place  where  each  must  rest, 
Each  enter'd  like  a  welcome  guest. 

One  walk'd  between  his  wife  and  child, 
With  measur'd  footfall  firm  and  mild, 
And  now  and  then  he  gravely  smiled. 

The  prudent  partner  of  his  blood 
Lean'd  on  him,  faithful,  gentle,  good, 
Wearing  the  rose  of  womanhood. 

And  in  their  double  love  secure, 
The  little  maiden  walk'd  demure, 
Pacing  with  downward  eyelids  pure, 

These  three  made  unity  so  sweet, 
My  frozen  heart  began  to  beat, 
Remembering  its  ancient  heat. 


THE  TWO   VOICES.  271 


I  blest  them,  and  they  wander'd  on ; 
I  spoke,  but  answer  came  there  none: 
The  dull  and  bitter  voice  was  gone. 

A  second  voice  was  at  my  ear, 

A  little  whisper  silver-clear, 

A  murmur,  "  Be  of  better  cheer." 

As  from  some  blissful  neighborhood, 

A  notice  faintly  understood, 

"  I  see  the  end,  and  know  the  good." 

A  little  hint  to  solace  woe, 

A  hint,  a  whisper  breathing  low, 

"  I  may  not  speak  of  what  I  know." 

Like  an  yEolian  harp  that  wakes 

No  certain  air,  but  overtakes 

Far  thought  with  music  that  it  makes: 

Such  seem'd  the  whisper  at  my  side: 

"  What  is  it  thou  knowest,  sweet  voice?"  I  cried. 

"  A  hidden  hope,"  the  voice  replied : 

So  heavenly-toned,  that  in  that  hour 
From  out  my  sullen  heart  a  power 
Broke,  like  the  rainbow  from  the  shower 

To  feel,  altho'  no  tongue  can  prove, 
That  every  cloud,  that  spreads  above 
And  veileth  love,  itself  is  love. 

And  forth  into  the  fields  I  went, 
And  Nature's  living  motion  lent 
The  pulse  of  hope  to  discontent. 

I  wonderM  at  the  bounteous  hours, 

The  slow  result  of  winter-showers: 

You  scarce  could  see  the  grass  for  flowers. 

I  wonder'd,  while  I  paced  along: 

The  woods  were  filPd  so  full  with  song, 

There  seem'd  no  room  for  sense  of  wrong. 


272 


THE  DAT-DREAM. 


So  variously  seemed  all  things  wrought, 
I  marvell'd  how  the  mind  was  brought 
To  anchor  by  one  gloomy  thought; 

And  wherefore  rather  I  made  choice 
To  commune  with  that  barren  voice, 
Than  him  that  said,  "Rejoice!  rejoice!" 


.-^&^&fc3<-" 


THE  DAT-DREAM. 


PROLOGUE. 


LADY  FLORA,  let  me  speak: 
A  pleasant  hour  has  past  away 
While,  dreaming  on  your  damask  cheek, 
The  dewy  sister-eyelids  lay. 
As  by  the  lattice  you  reclin'd, 

I  went  thro'  many  wayward  moods 
To  see  you  dreaming — and,  behind, 
A  summer  crisp  with  shining  woods. 
And  I  too  dream'd,  until  at  last 

Across  my  fancy,  brooding  warm, 
The  reflex  of  a  legend  past, 

And  loosely  settl'd  into  form. 
And  would  you  have  the  thought  I  had, 

And  see  the  vision  that  I  saw, 
Then  take  the  broidery-frame,  and  add 

A  crimson  to  the  quaint  Macaw, 
And  I  will  tell  it.     Turn  your  face, 

Nor  look  with  that  too-earnest  eye — 
The  rhymes  are  dazzled  from  their  place, 
And  order'd  words  asunder  fly. 


THE  DAY-DREAM.  273 


THE  SLEEPING  PALACE. 


£HE  varying  year  with  blade  and  sheaf 

Clothes  and  reclothes  the  happy  plains: 
Here  rests  the  sap  within  the  leaf, 

Here  stays  the  blood  along  the  veins. 
Paint  shadows,  vapors  lightly  curl'd, 

Faint  murmurs  from  the  meadows  come, 
Like  hints  and  echoes  of  4he  world 

To  spirits  folded  in  the  womb. 

Soft  lustre  bathes  the  range  of  urns 

On  every  slanting  terrace-lawn. 
The  fountain  to  his  place  returns, 

Deep  in  the  garden  lake  withdrawn. 
Here  droops  the  banner  on  the  tower, 

On  the  hall-hearths  the  festal  fires, 
The  peacock  in  his  laurel  bower, 

The  parrot  in  his  gilded  wires. 

Roof-haunting  martins  warm   their  eggs: 

In  these,  in  those  the  life  is  stay'd, 
The  mantles  from  the  golden  pegs 

Droop  sleepily :  no  sound  is  made, 
Not  even  of  a  gnat  that  sings. 

More  like  a  picture  seemeth  all 
Than  those  old  portraits  of  oid  kings, 

That  watch  the  sleepers  from  the  wall. 

Here  sits  the  butler  with  a  flask 

Between  his  knees  half-drain'd ;  and  there 
The  wrinkled  steward  at  his  task, 

The  maid-of-honor  blooming  fair: 
The  page  has  caught  her  hand  in  his: 

Her  lips  are  sever'd  as  to  speak: 
His  own  are  pouted  to  a  kiss: 

The  blush  is  fix'd  upon  her  cheek. 

Till  all  the  hundred  summers  pass, 

The  beams,  that  through  the  oriel  shine, 


M 


274  THE  DAY-DREAM. 


Make  prisms  in  every  carven  glass, 
And  beaker  brimm'd  with  noble  wine. 

Each  baron  at  the  banquet  sleeps, 
Grave  faces  gather'd  in  a  ring. 

His  state  the  king  reposing  keeps. 
He  must  have  been  a  jovial  king. 

All  round  a  hedge  upshoots,  and  shows 

At  distance  like  a  little  wood; 
Thorns,  ivies,  woodbine,  mistletoes, 

And  grapes  with  bunches  red  as  blood; 
All  creeping  plants,  a  wTall  of  green 

Close-matted,  bur  and  brake  and  brier, 
And  glimpsing  over  these,  just  seen, 

High  up  the  topmost  palace-spire. 

When  will  the  hundred  summers  die, 

And  thought  and  time  be  born  again, 
And  newer  knowledge,  drawing  nigh, 

Bring  truth  that  sways  the  soul  of  men? 
Here  all  things  in  their  place  remain, 

As  all  were  order'd,  ages  since. 
Come,  Care  and  Pleasure,  Hope  and  Pain, 

And  bring  the  fated  fairy  Prince. 


THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 


EAR  after  year  unto  her  feet, 
vShe  lying  on  her  couch  alone, 

Across  the  purpl'd  coverlet, 

The  maiden's  jet-black  hair  has  grown, 

On  either  side  her  tranced  form 

Forth  streaming  from  a  braid  of  pearl; 
The  slumbrous  light  is  rich  and  warm, 

And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  curl. 


The  silk  star-broider'd  coverlid 

Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould 
Languidly  ever;  and,  amid 


THE  DA  T-DkEAM. 


Her  full  black  ringlets  downward  roll'd, 
Glows  forth  each  softly-shadowed  arm 

With  bracelets  of  the  diamond  bright: 
Her  constant  beauty  doth  inform 

Stillness  with  love,  and  day  with  light. 

She  sleeps:  her  breathings  are  not  heard 

In  palace  chambers  far  apart. 
The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirr'd 

That  lie  upon  her  charmed  heart. 
She  sleeps:  on  either  hand  upswells 

The  gold-fring'd  pillow  lightly  prest: 
She  sleeps,  nor  dreams,  but  ever  dwells 

A  perfect  form  in  perfect  rest. 


THE  ARRIVAL. 


LL  precious  things,  discover'd  late, 

To  those  that  seek  them  issue  forth; 
For  love  in  sequel  works  with  fate, 

And  draws  the  veil  from  hidden  worth. 
He  travels  far  from  other  skies — 
His  mantle  glitters  on  the  rocks — 
A  fairy  Prince,  with  joyful  eyes, 
And  lighter-footed  than  the  fox. 

The  bodies  and  the  bones  of  those 

That  strove  in  other  days  to  pass, 
Are  withered  in  the  thorny  close, 

Or  scattered  blanching  on  the  grass. 
He  gazes  on  the  silent  dead, 

"  They  perish'd  in  their  daring  deeds." 
This  proverb  flashes  thro'  his  head, 

"  The  many  fail :  the  one  succeeds." 

He  comes,  scarce  knowing  what  he  seeks: 
He  breaks  the  hedge:  he  enters  there: 

The  color  flies  into  his  cheeks: 

He  trusts  to  light  on  something  fair; 


276 


THE  DAT-DREAM. 


For  all  his  life  the  charm  did  talk 
About  his  path,  and  hover  near 

With  words  of  promise  in  his  walk, 
And  whisper'd  voices  at  his  ear. 

More  close  and  close  his  footsteps  wind ; 

The  Magic  Music  in  his  heart 
Beats  quick  and  quicker,  till  he  find 

The  quiet  chamber  far  apart. 
His  spirit  flutters  like  a  lark, 

He  stoops — to  kiss  her — on  his  knee. 
"  Love,  if  thy  tresses  be  so  dark, 

How  dark  those  hidden  eyes  must  be! 


THE  REVIVAL. 


(j3[TOUCH,  a  kiss!  the  charm  was  snapt; 
|[      There  rose  a  noise  of  striking  clocks, 
And  feet  that  ran,  and  doors  that  clapt, 

And  barking  dogs,  and  crowing  cocks; 
A  fuller  light  illumin'd  all, 

A  breeze  thro'  all  the  garden  swept, 
A  sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall, 
And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 


The  hedge  broke  in,  the  banner  blew, 

The  butler  drank,  the  steward  scrawPd, 
The  fire  shot  up,  the  martin  flew, 

The  parrot  scream'd,  the  peacock  squall'd, 
The  maid  and  page  renew'd  their  strife, 

The  palace  bang'd,  and  buzz'd,  and  clackt 
And  all  the  long-pent  stream  of  life 

Dash'd  downward  in  a  cataract. 


And  last  with  these  the  king  awoke, 
And  in  his  chair  himself  uprear'd, 
And  yawn'd,  and  rubb'd  his  face,  and  spoke, 


THE  DA  T-DREAM. 


277 


"  By  holy  rood,  a  royal  beard ! 
How  say  you?  we  have  slept,  my  lords. 

My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap." 
The  barons  swore,  with  many  words, 

'Twas  but  an  after-dinner's  nap. 


"  Pardy,"  return'd  the  king,  "  but  still 

My  joints  are  something  stiff  or  so. 
My  lord,  and  shall  we  pass  the  bill 

I  mention'd  half  an  hour  ago?" 
The  chancellor,  sedate  and  vain, 

In  courteous  words  return'd  reply; 
But  dallied  with  his  golden  chain, 

And,  smiling,  put  the  question  by. 


278  *       THE  DAT-DREAM. 


THE  DEPARTURE. 


ND  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 
And  round  her  Waist  she  felt  it  fold, 
aAnd  far  across  the  hills  they  went 

In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old: 
Across  the  hills,  and  far  away 
Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
And  deep  into  the  dying  day 

The  happy  princess  follow'd  him. 

"  I'd  sleep  another  hundred  years, 

O  love,  for  such  another  kiss;" 
"  O  wake  forever,  love,"  she  hears, 

"  O  love,  't  was  such  as  this  and  this." 
And  o'er  them  many  a  sliding  star, 

And  many  a  merry  wind  was  borne, 
And,  stream'd  thro'  many  a  golden  bar, 

The  twilight  melted  into  morn. 

"  O  eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleep! " 

»  O  happy  sleep,  that  lightly  fled!  " 
"  O  happy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep!  " 

"O  love,  thy  kiss  would  wake  the  dead!  ' 
And  o'er  them  many  a  flowing  range 

Of  vapor  buoy'd  the  crescent-bark, 
And,  rapt  thro'  many  a  rosy  change, 

The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 

"  A  hundred  summers!  can  it  be? 

And  whither  goest  thou,  tell  me  where?" 
"  O  seek  my  father's  court  with  me, 

For  there  are  greater  wonders  there." 
And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day, 

Thro'  all  the  world  she  follow'd  him. 


THE  DAT-DREAM.  279 


MORAL. 


O,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lav, 

And  if  you  find  no  moral  there, 
Go,  look  in  any  glass  and  say, 
What  moral  is  in  being  fair. 
O  to  what  uses  shall  we  put 

The  wild  weed-flower  that  simply  blows? 
And  is  there  any  moral  shut 
Within  the  bosom  of  the  rose? 

But  any  man  that  walks  the  mead, 

In  bud  or  blade,  or  bloom,  may  find, 
According  as  his  humors  lead, 

A  meaning  suited  to  his  mind. 
And  liberal  applications  lie 

In  Art  like  Nature,  dearest  friend; 
So  't  were  to  cramp  its  use,  if  I 

Should  hook  it  to  some  useful  end. 


L'ENVOI. 


OU  shake  your  head.     A  random  string 

Your  finer  female  sense  offends. 
Well — were  it  not  a  pleasant  thing 

To  fall  asleep  with  all  one's  friends; 
To  pass  with  all  our  social  ties 

To  silence  from  the  paths  of  men ; 
And  every  hundred  years  to  rise 

And  learn  the  world,  and  sleep  again : 
To  sleep  thro'  terms  of  mighty  wars, 

And  wake  on  science  grown  to  more, 
On  secrets  of  the  brain,  the  stars, 

As  wild  as  aught  of  fairy  lore; 


280  THE  DAY-DREAM. 


And  all  that  else  the  years  will  show, 

The  Poet  forms  of  stronger  hours, 
The  vast  Republics  that  may  grow, 

The  Federations  and  the  Powers; 
Titanic  forces  taking  birth 

In  divers  seasons,  divers  climes; 
For  we  are  ancients  of  the  earth, 

And  in  the  morning  of  the  times. 

So  sleeping,  so  arous'd  from  sleep 

Thro'  sunny  decades  new  and  strange, 

Or  gay  quinquenniads  would  we  reap 
The  flower  and  quintessence  of  change. 

Ah,  yet  would  I — and  would  I  might? 

So  much  your  eyes  my  fancy  take — 
Be  still  the  first  to  leap  to  light 

That  I  might  kiss  those  eyes  awake ! 
For,  am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong, 

To  choose  your  own  you  did  not  care ; 
You'd  have  my  moral  from  the  song, 

And  I  will  take  my  pleasure  there: 
And,  am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong, 

My  fancy,  ranging  thro'  and  thrQ% 
To  search  a  meaning  for  the  song, 

Perforce  will  still  revert  to  you; 
Nor  finds  a  closer  truth  than  this 

All-graceful  head,  so  richly  curl'd, 
And  evermore  a  costly  kiss 

The  prelude  to  some  brighter  world. 

For  since  the  time  when  Adam  first 

Embrac'd  his  Eve  in  happy  hour, 
And  every  bird  of  Eden  burst 

In  carol,  every  bud  to  flower, 
What  eyes,  like  thine,  have  waken'd  hopes? 

What  lips,  like  thine,  so  sweetly  join'd? 
Where  on  the  double  rosebud  droops 

The  fulness  of  the  pensive  mind; 
Which  all  too  dearly  self-involv'd, 

Yet  sleeps  a  dreamless  sleep  to  me; 
A  sleep  by  kisses  undissolved, 

That  lets  thee  neither  hear  nor  see: 
But  break  it.     In  the  name  of  wife, 


"Young  ashes  pirouetted  down, 

Coquetting  with  young  beeches." 

Seepage  282. 


A  MP H /OX. 


281 


And  in  the  rights  that  name  may  give, 
Are  clasp'd  the  moral  of  thy  life, 
And  that  for  which  I  care  to  live. 


EPILOGUE. 


So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay, 

And,  if  you  find  a  meaning  there, 
O  whisper  to  your  glass,  and  say, 

"  What  wonder,  if  he  thinks  me  fair?" 
What  wonder  I  was  all  unwise, 

To  shape  the  song  for  your  delight, 
Like  long-tail'd  birds  of  Paradise, 

That  float  thro'  Heaven,  and  cannot  light? 
Or  old-world  trains,  upheld  at  court 

By  Cupid  boys  of  blooming  hue — 
But  take  it — earnest  wed  with  sport, 

And  either  sacred  unto  you. 


.**$=afc^fg.*s3<-.. 


AMPHION. 


Y  father  left  a  park  to  me, 
But  it  is  wild  and  barren, 
^^A  garden  too  with  scarce  a  tree 
And  waster  than  a  warren : 
Yet  say  the  neighbors  when  they  call, 

It  is  not  bad  but  good  land, 
And  in  it  is  the  germ  of  all 
That  grows  within  the  woodland. 

O  had  I  lived  when  song  was  great 

In  days  of  old  Amphion, 
And  ta'en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate, 

Nor  cared  for  seed  or  scion ! 
And  had  I  lived  when  song  was  great, 

And  legs  of  trees  were  limber, 
And  ta'en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate, 

And  fiddled  in  the  timber! 


282  AMPHION. 


'T  is  said  he  had  a  tuneful  tongue, 

Such  happy  intonation. 
Wherever  he  sat  down  and  sung 

He  left  a  small  plantation; 
Wherever  in  a  lonely  grove 

He  set  up  his  forlorn  pipes, 
The  gouty  oak  began  to  move, 

And  flounder  into  hornpipes. 

The  mountain  stirr'd  its  bushy  crown, 

And,  as  tradition  teaches, 
Young  ashes  pirouetted  down 

Coquetting  with  young  beeches; 
And  briony-vine  and  ivy-wreath 

Ran  forward  to  his  rhyming, 
And  from  the  valleys  underneath 

Came  little  copses  climbing. 

The  birch-tree  swang  her  fragrant  hair, 

The  bramble  cast  her  berry, 
The  gin  within  the  juniper 

Began  to  make  him  merry, 
The  poplars,  in  long  order  due, 

With  cypress  promenaded, 
The  shock-head  willows  two  and  two 

By  rivers  gallopaded. 

Came  wet-shot  alder  from  the  wave, 

Came  yews,  a  dismal  coterie; 
Each  pluck'd  his  one  foot  from  the  grave, 

Poussetting  with  a  sloe-tree : 
Old  elms  came  breaking  from  the  vine, 

The  vine  stream'd  out  to  follow, 
And,  sweating  rosin,  plump'd  the  pine 

From  many  a  cloudy  hollow. 

And  wasn't  it  a  sight  to  see, 

When,  ere  his  song  was  ended, 
Like  some  great  landslip,  tree  by  tree, 

The  country-side  descended ; 
And  shepherds  from  the  mountain-eaves 

Look'd  down,  half-pleas'd,  half-frighten'd, 
As  dash'd  about  the  drunken  leaves 

The  random  sunshine  lighten'd ! 


!  \fPHION.  283 


O,  nature  first  was  fresh  to  men, 

And  wanton  without  measure: 
So  youthful  and  so  flexile  then, 

You  moved  her  at  your  pleasure. 
Twang  out,  my  fiddle!  shake  the  twigs! 

And  make  her  dance  attendance; 
Blow,  flute,  and  stir  the  stiff-set  sprigs, 

And  scirrhous  roots  and  tendons. 

'Tisvain!  in  such  a  brassy  age 

I  could  not  move  a  thistle : 
The  very  sparrows  in  the  hedge 

Scarce  answer  to  my  whistle: 
Or  at  the  most,  when  three-parts-sick 

With  strumming  and  with  scraping, 
A  jackass  heehaws  from  the  rick, 

The  passive  oxen  gaping. 

But  what  is  that  I  hear?  a  sound 

Like  sleepy  counsel  pleading: 
O  Lord! — 'tis  in  my  neighbor's  ground, 

The  modern  Muses  reading. 
They  read  Botanic  Treatises, 

And  Works  on  Gardening  thro'  there, 
And  Methods  of  transplanting  trees, 

To  look  as  if  they  grew  there. 

The  wither'd  Misses!  how  they  prose 

O'er  books  of  travell'd  seamen, 
And  show  you  slips  of  all  that  grows 

From  England  to  Van  Diemen. 
They  read  in  arbors  dipt  and  cut, 

And  alleys,  faded  places, 
By  squares  of  tropic  summer  shut 

And  warm'd  in  crystal  cases. 

But  these,  tho'  fed  with  careful  dirt, 

Are  neither  green  nor  sappy; 
Half-conscious  of  the  garden-squirt, 

The  spindlings  look  unhappy. 
Better  to  me  the  meanest  weed 

That  blows  upon  its  mountain, 
The  vilest  herb  that  runs  to  seed 

Beside  its  native  fountain. 


284 


WILL    WATERPROOF'S  LTRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


And  I  must  work  thro'  months  of  toil, 

And  years  of  cultivation, 
Upon  my  proper  patch  of  soil 

To  grow  my  own  plantation. 
I'll  take  the  showers  as  they  fall, 

I  will  not  vex  my  bosom : 
Enough  if  at  the  end  of  all 

A  little  garden  blossom. 


WILL    WATERPROOF'S  LTRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


MADE    AT     THE    COCK. 


PLUMP  head-waiter  at  The  Cock, 

To  which  I  must  resort, 
How  goes  the  time?     'Tis  five  o'clock. 

Go  fetch  a  pint  of  port: 
But  let  it  not  be  such  as  that 

You  set  before  chance  comers, 
But  such  whose  father-grape  grew  fat 

On  Lusitanian  summers. 


No  vain  libation  to  the  Muse, 

But  may  she  still  be  kind, 
And  whisper  lovely  words,  and  use 

Her  influence  on  the  mind, 
To  make  me  write  my  random  rhymes, 

Ere  they  be  half- forgotten; 
Nor  add  and  alter,  many  times, 

Till  all  be  ripe  and  rotten. 


I  pledge  her,  and  she  comes  and  dips 

Her  laurel  in  the  wine, 
And  lays  it  thrice  upon  my  lips, 

These  favor'd  lips  of  mine; 
Until  the  charm  have  power  to  make 

New  life-blood  warm  the  bosom, 
And  barren  commonplaces  break 

In  full  and  kindly  blossom. 


WILL   WATERPROOFS  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE.  283 

I  pledge  her  silent  at  the  board; 

Her  gradual  fingers  steal 
And  touch  upon  the  master-chord 

Of  all  I  felt  and  feel. 
Old  wishes,  ghosts  of  broken  plans, 

And  phantom  hopes  assemble; 
And  that  child's  heart  within  the   man's 

Begins  to  move  and  tremble. 

Thro'  many  an  h<>ur  of  summer  suns 
By  many  pleasant   w ;i\  8, 

Against  its  fountain  upward  runs 

The  current  of  my  days. 
I  kiss  the  lips  I  once  have  kiss'd; 

The  gas-light  wavers  dimmer; 
And  softly  thro'  a  vinous    mist. 

My  college  friendships  glimmer. 

I  grow  in  worth)  and  wit,  and  sense, 

Unboding  critic-pen. 
Or  that  eternal  want  of  pence, 

Which  vexes  public  men, 
Who  hold  their  hands  to  all,  and  cry 

For  that  which  all  deny  them, — 
Who  sweep  the  crossings,  wet  or  dryt 

And  all  the  world  go  by  them. 

Ah  yet,  tho'  all  the  world  forsake, 

Tho'  fortune  clip  my  wings, 
I  will  not  cramp  mv  heart,  nor  take 

Half-Views  of  men  and  things. 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  stir  their  blood; 

There  must  be  stormy  weather: 
But  for  some  true  result  of  good 

All  parties  work  together. 

Let  there  be  thistles,  there  are  grapes; 

I  f  old  things,  there  are  new ; 
Ten  thousand  broken  lights  and  shapes, 

jlimpses  of  the  true. 
Let  r;t lis  be  rife  in  prose  and  rhyme, 

We  lack  not  rhymes  and  reasons, 
As  on  this  whirligig  of  Time 

We  circle  with  the  seasons. 


!8t)  WILL  WATERPROOF'S  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 

This  earth  is  rich  in  man  and  maid; 

With  fair  horizons  bound! 
This  whole  wide  earth  of  light  and  shade 

Comes  out,  a  perfect  round. 
High  over  roaring  Temple-bar, 

And,  set  in  Heaven's  third  story, 
I  look  at  all  things  as  they  are, 

But  thro'  a  kind  of  glory. 


Head-waiter,  honor'd  by  the  guest 

Half-mus'd,  or  reeling-ripe, 
The  pint  you  brought  me,  was  the  best 

That  ever  came  from  pipe. 
But  tho'  the  port  surpasses  praise, 

My  nerves  have  dealt  with  stifFer. 
Is  there  some  magic  in  the  place  ? 

Or  do  my  peptics  differ? 


For  since  I  came  to  live  and  learn, 

No  pint  of  white  or  red 
Had  ever  half  the  power  to  turn 

This  wheel  within  my  head, 
Which  bears  a  season'd  brain  about, 

Unsubject  to  confusion, 
Tho'  soak'd  and  saturate,  out  and  out, 

Thro'  every  convolution. 

For  I  am  of  a  numerous  house, 

With  many  kinsmen  gay, 
Where  long  and  largely  we  carouse, 

As  who  shall  say  me  nay. 
Each  month,  a  birthday  coming  on, 

We  drink  defying  trouble, 
Or  sometimes  two  would  meet  in  one, 

And  then  we  drank  it  double; 

Whether  the  vintage,  yet  unkept, 

Had  relish  fiery-new, 
Or,  elbow-deep  in  sawdust,  slept, 

As  old  as  Waterloo; 
Or  stow'd  (when  classic  Canning  died) 


WILL   WATERPROOF'S  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE.  287 

In  musty  bins  and  chambers, 
Had  cast  upon  its  crusty  side 
The  gloom  of  ten  Decembers. 

The  Muse,  the  jolly  Muse,  it  is! 

She  answer'd  to  my  call, 
She  changes  with  that  mood  or  this, 

Is  all-in-all  to  all: 
She  lit  the  spark  within  my  throat, 

To  make  my  blood  run  quicker, 
Used  all  her  fiery  will,  and  smote 

Her  life  into  the  liquor. 

.  And  hence  this  halo  lives  about 

The  waiter's  hands,  that  reach 
To  each  his  perfect  pint  of  stout, 

His  proper  chop  to  each. 
He  looks  not  like  the  common  breed 

That  with  the  napkin  dally; 
I  think  he  came  like  Ganymede,  *^» 

From  some  delightful  valley. 

The  Cock  was  of  a  larger  egg 

Than  modern  poultry  drop, 
Stept  forward  on  a  firmer  leg, 

And  cramm'd  a  plumper  crop; 
Upon  an  ampler  dunghill  trod, 

Crow'd  lustier  late  and  early, 
Sipt  wine  from  silver,  praising  God, 

And  raked  in  golden  barley. 

A  private  life  was  all  his  joy, 

Till  in  a  court  he  saw 
A  something-pottle-bodied  boy, 

That  knuckled  at  the  taw: 
He  stoop'd  and  clutch'd  him,  fair  and  good 

Flew  over  roof  and  casement: 
His  brothers  of  the  weather  stood 

Stock-still  for  sheer  amazement. 

But  he,  by  farmstead,  thorpe,  and  spire, 

And  follow'd  with  acclaims, 
A  sign  to  many  a  staring  shire, 

Came  crowing  over  Thames. 


28ft  WILL   WATERPROOF'S  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 

Right  down  by  smoky  Paul's  they  bore, 
Till,  where  the  street  grows  straiter, 

One  fix'd  forever  at  the  door, 
And  one  became  head-waiter. 


But  whither  would  my  fancy  go? 

How  out  of  place  she  makes 
The  violet  of  a  legend  blow 

Among  the  chops  and  steaks! 
'Tis  but  a  steward  of  the  can, 

One  shade  more  plump  than  common; 
As  just  and  mere  a  serving-man 

As  any,  born  of  woman. 

I  ranged  too  high :  what  draws  me  down 

Into  the  common  day? 
Is  it  the  weight  of  that  half-crown, 

Which  I  shall  have  to  pay? 
For,  something  duller  than  at  first, 

Nor  wholly  comfortable, 
I  sit  (my  empty  glass  revers'd), 

And  thrumming  on  the  table; 

Half-fearful  that,  with  self  at  strife, 

I  take  myself  to  task; 
Lest  of  the  fulness  of  my  life 

I  leave  an  empty  flask: 
For  I  had  hope,  by  something  rare, 

To  prove  myself  a  poet; 
But,  while  I  plan  and  plan,  my  hair 

Is  gray  before  I  know  it. 

So  fares  it  since  the  years  began, 

Till  they  be  gather'd  up; 
The  truth,  that  flies  the  flowing  can, 

Will  haunt  the  vacant  cup: 
And  others'  follies  teach  us  not, 

Nor  much  their  wisdom  teaches; 
And  most,  of  sterling  worth,  is  what 

Our  own  experience  preaches. 


WILL   WATERPROOF'S  LTRICAL  MONOLOGUE.  289 

Ah,  let  the  rusty  theme  alone! 

We  know  not  what  we  know. 
But  for  my  pleasant  hour,  'tis  gone, 

'Tis  gone,  and  let  it  go. 
'Tis  gone:  a  thousand  such  have  slipt 

Away  from  my  embraces, 
And  fall'n  into  the  dusty  crypt 

Of  darkened  forms  and  faces. 

Go,  therefore,  thou !  thy  betters  went 

Long  since,  and  came  no  more: 
With  peals  of  genial  clamor  sent 

From  many  a  tavern-door, 
With  twisted  quirks  and  happy  hits, 

From  misty  men  of  letters; 
The  tavern-hours  of  mighty  wits, — 

Thine  elders  and  thy  betters. 

Hours,  when  the  Poet's  words  and  looks 

Had  yet  their  native  glow: 
Nor  yet  the  fear  of  little  books 

Had  made  him  talk  for  show ; 
But,  all  his  vast  heart  sherris-warm'd, 

He  flash'd  his  random  speeches; 
Ere  days,  that  deal  in  ana,  swarm'd, 

His  literary  leeches. 

So  mix  forever  with  the  past, 

Like  all  good  things  on  earth! 
For  should  I  prize  thee,  couldst  thou  last, 

At  half  thy  real  worth? 
I  hold  it  good,  good  things  should  pass: 

With  time  I  will  not  quarrel: 
It  is  but  yonder  empty  glass 

That  makes  me  maudlin-moral. 


19 


Head  waiter  of  the  chop-house  here, 

To  which  I  must  resort, 
I  too  must  part;  I  hold  thee  dear 

For  this  good  pint  of  port. 


290  WILL   WATERPROOF'S  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 

For  this,  thou  shalt  from  all  things  suck 
Marrow  of  mirth  and  laughter; 

And,  wheresoe'er  thou  move,  good  luck 
Shall  fling  her  old  shoe  after. 

But  thou  wilt  never  move  from   hence, 

The  sphere  thy  fate  allots: 
Thy  latter  days  increas'd  with  pence 

Go  down  among  the  pots: 
Thou  battenest  by  the  greasy  gleam 

In  haunts  of  hungry  sinners, 
Old  boxes,  larded  with  the  steam 

Of  thirty  thousand  dinners. 

We  fret,  we  fume,  would  shift  our  skins, 

Would  quarrel  with  our  lot: 
Thy  care  is,  under  polish'd  tins, 

To  serve  the  hot-and-not; 
To  come  and  go,  and  come  again, 

Returning  like  the  pewit, 
And  watch'd  by  silent  gentlemen, 
That  trifle  with  the  cruet. 

Live  long,  ere  from  thy  topmost  head 

The  thick-set  hazel  dies; 
Long,  ere  the  hateful  crow  shall  tread 

The  corners  of  thine  eyes: 
Live  long,  nor  feel  in  head  or  chest 

Our  changeful  equinoxes, 
Till  mellow  Death,  like  some  late  guest, 

Shall  call  thee  from  the  boxes. 

But  when  he  calls,  and  thou  shalt  cease 

To  pace  the  gritted  floor, 
And,  laying  down  an  unctuous  lease 

Of  life,  shalt  earn  no  more : 
No  carv'd  cross-bones,  the  types  of  Death, 

Shall  show  thee  past  to  Heaven ; 
But  carv'd  cross-pipes,  and,  underneath, 

A  pint-pot,  neatly  graven. 


^r,-.r-;?,^ 


For  me  the  torrent  ever  pour'd." 


J<s  E.  £.,  ON  HIS  TRAVELS  IN  GREECE. 


291 


TO  E.  Z.,  ON  HIS  TRA  VELS  IN  GREECE. 


ILLYRIAN  woodlands,  echoing  falls 
^*¥r  Of  water,  sheets  of  summer  glass, 

J|L        The  long  divine  Peneian  pass, 
"  The  vast  Akrokeraunian  walls, 


Tomohrit,  Athos,  all  things  fair, 
With  such  a  pencil,  such  a  pen, 
You  shadow  forth  to  distant  men 

I  read  and  felt  that  I  was  there: 


And  trust  me  while  I  turn'd  the  page, 
And  track'd  you  still  on  classic  ground, 
I  grew  in  gladness  till  I  found 

My  spirits  in  the  golden  age. 

For  me  the  torrent  ever  pour'd 

And  glisten'd — here  and  there  alone 

The  broad-limb'd  Gods  at  random  thrown 

By  fountain-urns; — and  Naiads  oar'd 


A  glimmering  shoulder  under  gloom 
Of  cavern  pillars;  on  the  swell 
The  silver  lily  heav'd  and  fell; 

And  many  a  slope  was  rich  in  bloom 

From  him  that  on  the  mountain  lea 
By  dancing  rivulets  fed  his  flocks, 
To  him  who  sat  upon  the  rocks, 

And  fluted  to  the  morning  sea. 


292 


LADT  CLARE. 


^ 
A 


*T  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow, 
And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air, 

Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin,  Lady  Clare. 


I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn: 
Lovers  long-betroth'd  were  they : 

They  too  will  wed  the  morrow  morn: 
God's  blessing  on  the  day ! 

"  He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 
Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair: 

He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse. 

Said,  "  Who  was  this  that  went  from  thee? " 
"  It  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare, 

"  To-morrow  he  weds  with  me." 


w  O  God  be  thank'd ! "  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  That  all  comes  round  so  just  and  fair: 


L 


•*  It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow.'' 


LADY  CLARE.  293 


Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands, 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my  nurse?" 
Said  Lady  Clare,  "  that  ye  speak  so  wild?  " 

"  As  God's  above,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  I  speak  the  truth:  you  are  my  child. 

"  The  old  Earl's  daughter  died  at  my  breast; 

I  speak  the  truth,  as  I  live  by  bread! 
I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child, 

And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 

"  Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 

O  mother,"  she  said,  "  if  this  be  true, 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due." 

"  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 
And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ronald's, 

When  you  are  man  and  wife." 

a  If  I'm  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie. 

Pull  off,  pull  off,  the  broach  of  gold, 
And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by." 

*  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can." 
She  said  "Not  so:  but  I  will  know 

If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

"Nay  now,  what  faith? "  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right." 

"  And  he  shall  have  it,"  the  lady  replied, 
"  Tho'  I  should  die  to-night." 

"  Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother  dear! 

Alas,  my  child,  I  sinn'd  for  thee." 
**  O  mother,  mother,  mother,"  she  said, 

"  So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 


294 


LADY  CLARE. 


"  Yet  here's  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 
My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so, 

And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head, 
And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 

She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown, 
She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare: 

She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by  down, 
With  a  single  rose  in  her  hair. 


The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had  brought 

Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 
Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand, 

And  follow'd  her  all  the  way. 


Down  stept  Lord  Ronald  from  his  tower: 
"  O  Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your  worth! 


LADT  CLARE.  295 


Why  come  you  drest  like  a  village  maid, 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth?  n 


"  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  maid, 
I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are: 

I  am  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"  And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  For  I  am  yours  in  word  and  in  deed. 

Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 


O  and  proudly  stood  she  up! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail: 
She  look'd  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes, 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

He  laugh'd  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn : 

He  turn'd,  and  kiss'd  her  where  she  stood; 

"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 

"  And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  next  in  blood — 

"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 
And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  lawful  heir, 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn, 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare." 


290 


S/71  GALAHAD. 


SIX   GALAHAD. 


good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men 
My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 
Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 
The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack1  and  fly, 
The  horse  and  rider  reel: 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 
That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall! 
For  them  I  battle  to  the  end, 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall : 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow'd  in  crypt  and  shrine: 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine. 
More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 


When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims, 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns: 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride: 

I  hear  a  voice,  but  none  are  there: 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 


SIX  GALAHAD. 


297 


Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 
The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 


The  shrill  bell 


rings, 


the 


censer  swings, 


And  solemn  chants  resound  between. 


Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark; 
I  leap  on  board :  no  helmsman  steers, 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sound,  an  awful   light! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail: 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision!  blood  of  God! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 


298  SIR  GALAHAD. 


When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go, 
The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 

And,  ringing,  spins  from  brand  and  mail; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads, 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields : 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

A  maiden  knight — to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams, 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 

This  mortal  armor  that  I  wear, 
This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear: 
"  O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God! 

Ride  on!  the  prize  is  near." 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-arm'd  I  ride,  whate5jr  betide, 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 


ST.  AGNES'  EVE. 


299 


im* 


ST.  AGNES'  EVE. 


EEP  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon : 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes: 

May  my  soul  follow  soon! 
The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord : 
Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies, 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 


300  to 


As  these  white  robes  are  soiled  and  dark, 

To  yonder  shining  ground ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round ; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am, 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens,  O  Lord !  and  far, 

Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen, 
Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star, 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors 

The  flashes  come  and  go; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

And  strews  her  lights  below, 
And  deepens  on  and  up!  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  Sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  Sabbath  deep  and  wide — 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea — 

The  bridegroom  with  his  bride! 


~«3BlBHfce=3*" 


TO 


AFTER    READING    A    LIFE    AND    LETTERS. 

"Cursed  be  he  that  moves  my  bones."— Shakespeare's  Epitaph. 


OU  might  have  won  the  Poet's  name, 
If  such  be  worth  the  winning  now, 
And  gain'd  a  laurel  for  your  brow 

Of  sounder  leaf  than  I  can  clai«^ 


But  you  have  made  the  wiser  choice, 
A  life  that  moves  to  gracious  ends 
Thro'  troops  of  unrecording  friends, 

A  deedful  life,  a  silent  voice; 


TO .  301 

And  you  have  miss'd  the  irreverent  doom 

Of  those  that  wear  the  Poet's  crown: 

Hereafter,  neither  knave  nor  clown 
Shall  hold  their  orgies  at  your  tomb. 

For  now  the  Poet  cannot  die 

Nor  leave  his  music  as  of  old, 

But  round  him  ere  he  scarce  be  cold 
Begins  the  scandal  and  the  cry: 

"Proclaim  the  faults  he  would  not  show: 

Break  lock  and  seal:     Betray  the  trust: 

Keep  nothing  sacred:  'tis  but  just 
The  many-headed  beast  should  know." 

Ah  shameless!  for  he  did  but  sing 

A  song  that  pleas'd  us  from  its  worth; 

No  public  life  was  his  on  earth, 
No  blazon'd  statesman  he,  nor  king. 

He  gave  the  people  of  his  best: 

His  worst  he  kept,  his  best  he  gave. 

My  Shakespeare's  curse  on  clown  and  knave 
Who  will  not  let  his  ashes  rest! 

Who  make  it  seem  more  sweet  to  be 

The  little  life  of  bank  and  brier, 

The  bird  that  pipes  his  lone  desire 
And  dies  unheard  within  his  tree, 

Than  he  that  warbles  long  and  loud 

And  drops  at  Glory's  temple-gates, 

For  whom  the  carrion  vulture  waits 
To  tear  his  heart  before  the  crowd! 


302 


THE  LORD  OF  BURLEIGH. 


THE  LORD  OF  BURLEIGH. 


N  her  ear  he  whispers  gayly, 
"  If  my  heart  by  signs  can  tell, 
jKfeft.  Maiden,  I  have  watch'd  thee  daily, 
And  I  think  thou  lov'st  me  well.'' 
She  replies,  in  accents  fainter, 

"There  is  none  I  love  like  thee." 
He  is  but  a  landscape-painter, 
And  a  village  maiden  she. 
He  to  lips,  that  fondly  falter, 

Presses  his  without  reproof: 
Leads  her  to  the  village  altar, 

And  they  leave  her  father's  roof. 
"  I  can  make  no  marriage  present; 

Little  can  I  give  my  wife. 
Love  will  make  our  cottage  pleasant, 

And  I  love  thee  more  than  life." 
They  by  parks  and  lodges  going 

See  the  lordly  castles  stand; 
Summer  woods,  about  them  blowing, 

Made  a  murmur  in  the  land. 
From  deep  thought  himself  he  rouses, 

Says  to  her  that  loves  him  well, 
"  Let  us  see  these  handsome  houses 

Where  the  wealthy  nobles  dwell." 
So  she  goes  by  him  attended, 

Hears  him  lovingly  converse, 
Sees  whatever  fair  and  splendid 

Lay  betwixt  his  home  and  hers; 

Parks  with  oak  and  chestnut  shady, 

Parks  and  order'd  gardens  great, 

Ancient  homes  of  lord  and  lady, 

Built  for  pleasure  and  for  state. 

All  he  shows  her  makes  him  dearer, 

Evermore  she  seems  to  gaze 
On  that  cottage  growing  nearer, 

Where  they  twain  will  spend  their  days. 
O  but  she  will  love  him  truly! 
He  shall  have  a  cheerful  home: 


THE  LORD  OF  BURLEIGH.  303 

She  will  order  all  things  duly, 

When  beneath  his  roof  they  come. 
Thus  her  heart  rejoices  greatly, 

Till  a  gateway  she  discerns 
With  armorial  bearings  stately, 

And  beneath  the  gate  she  turns; 
Sees  a  mansion  more  majestic 

Than  all  those  she  saw  before: 
Many  a  gallant  gay  domestic 

Bows  before  him  at  the  door. 
And  they  speak  in  gentle  murmur, 

When  they  answer  to  his  call, 
While  he  treads  with  footstep  firmer, 

Leading  on  from  hall  to  hall. 
And,  while  now  she  wonders  blindly, 

Nor  the  meaning  can  divine, 
Proudly  turns  he'round  and  kindly, 

"  All  of  this  is  mine  and  thine." 
Here  he  lives  in  state  and   bounty, 

Lord  of  Burleigh,  fair  and  free, 
Not  a  lord  in  ail  the  county 

Is  so  great  a  lord  as  he. 
All  at  once  the  color  flushes 

Her  sweet  face  from  brow  to  chin: 
As  it  were  with  shame  she  blushes, 

And  her  spirit  changed  within. 
Then  her  countenance  all  over 

Pale  again  as  death  did  prove; 
But  he  clasp'd  her  like  a  lover, 

And  he  cheer'd  her  soul  with  love. 
So  she  strove  against  her  weakness, 

Tho'  at  times  her  spirit  sank : 
Shap'd  her  heart  with  woman's  meekness 

To  all  duties  of  her  rank : 
And  a  gentle  consort  made  he, 

And  her  gentle  mind  was  such 
That  she  grew  a  noble  lady, 

And  the  people  lov'd  her  much. 
But  a  trouble  weigh'd  upon  her, 

And  perplex'd  her,  night  and  morn, 
With  the  burden  of  an  honor 

Unto  which  she  was  not  born. 
Faint  she  grew,  and  ever  fainter, 

As  she  murmur'd,  "  O,  that  he 
Were  once  more  that  landscape-painter, 


304 


THE  POETS  SONG. 


Which  did  win  my  heart  from  me !  " 
So  she  droop'd  and  droop'cl  before  him, 

Fading  slowly  from   his  side: 
Three  fair  children  first  she  bore  him, 

Then  before  her  time  she  died. 
Weeping,  weeping  late  and  early, 

Walking  up  and  pacing  down, 
Deeply  mourn'd  the  Lord  of  Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house  by  Stamford-town. 
And  he  came  to  look  upon  her, 

And  he  look'd  at  her  and  said, 
"  Bring  the  dress  and  put  it  on  her, 

That  she  wore  when  she  was  wed." 
Then  her  people,  softly  treading. 

Bore  to  earth  her  body,  drest 
In  the  dress  that  she  was  wed  in, 

That  her  spirit  might  have  rest. 


••«*3^#e$eM 


THE  POET'S  SONG. 


f*HE  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose, 

He  pass'd  by  the  town  and  out  of  the  street. 


S§p^*'A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of  the  sun, 
And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the  wheat, 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  place, 
And  chanted  a  melody  loud  and  sweet, 
That  made  the  wild  swan  pause  in  her  cloud, 
And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 


The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the  bee, 

The  snake  slipt  under  a  spray, 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on  his  beak, 

And  stared,  with  his  foot  on  the  prey, 
And  the  nightingale  thought,  "  I  have  sung  many   songs, 

But  never  a  one  so  gay, 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 

When  the  years  have  died  away." 


«y     v.' 


Sv<v„ 


t 

And  the  nightingale  thought,  "  I  have  sung  many  6ong»." 


EDWARD  GRAT. 


305 


EDWARD  GRAT. 


WEET  Emma  Moreland  of  yonder  town 
Met  me  walking  on  yonder  w : i  \ , 

"  And  have  yon  lost  your  heart,"  she  said : 
"  And  are  you  married  yet,  Edward  Gray?  ' 


20 


Sweet  Emma  Moreland  spoke  to  me: 
Bitterly  weeping  T  tuni'd  away: 

"  Sweet  Emma  Moreland,  love  no  more 
Can  touch  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray. 


306  EDWARD  GRAT. 


"  Ellen  Adair  she  loved  me  well, 

Against  her  father's  and  mother's  will: 

To-day  I  sat  for  an  hour  and  wept, 
By  Ellen's  grave,  on  the  windy  hill. 

"  Shy  she  was,  and  I  thought  her  cold; 

Thought  her  proud,  and  fled  over  the  sea: 
Fill'd  I  was  with  folly  and  spite,   ' 

When  Ellen  Adair  was  dying  for  me. 

"  Cruel,  cruel  the  words  I  said ! 

Cruelly  came  they  back  to-day: 
1  You're  too  slight  and  fickle,'  I  said, 

1  To  trouble  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray.' 

u  There  I  put  my  face  in  the  grass — 
Whisper'd,  '  Listen  to  my  despair: 

I  repent  me  of  all  I  did: 

Speak  a  little,  Ellen  Adair! ' 

"  Then  I  took  a  pencil,  and  wrote 

On  the  mossy  stone,  as  I  lay, 
'Here  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair; 

And  here  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray!' 

"  Love  may  come,  and  love  may  go, 
And  fly,  like  a  bird,  from  tree  to  tree; 

But  I  will  love  no  more,  no  more, 
Till  Ellen  Adair  comes  back  to  me. 

"  Bitterly  wept  I  over  the  stone : 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away: 

There  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair! 

And  there  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray!" 


S/Jl  LA  UNCELOT  AND  QU£EN  GUINE  \  EA'E.  307 


SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND  QUEEN  GUINEVERE. 


A    FRAGMENT. 

|||IKE  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain. 

With  tears  and  smiles  from  heaven  again 
The  maiden  Spring  upon  the  plain 
Came  in  a  sunlit  fall  of  rain. 

In  crystal  vapor  everywhere 
Blue  isles  of  heaven  laugh'd  between, 
5^0?** And,  far  in  forest-deeps  unseen, 
The  topmost  elm-tree  gathered  green 
From  draughts  of  balmy  air. 


m 


3 


Sometimes  the  linnet  piped  his  song. 
Sometimes  the  throstle  whistled  strong: 
Sometimes  the  sparhawk,  wheel'd  along, 
Hush'd  all  the  groves  from  fear  of  wrong: 
^  By  grassy  capes  with  fuller  sound 

In  curves  the  yellowing  river  ran, 
And  drooping  chestnut-buds  began 
To  spread  into  the  perfect  fan, 

Above  the  teeming  ground. 

Then,  in  the  boyhood  of  the  year, 
Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Rode  thro'  the  coverts  of  the  deer, 
With  blissful  treble  ringing  clear. 

She  seem'd  a  part  of  joyous  Spring : 
A  gown  of  grass-green  silk  she  wore, 
Buckl'd  with  golden  clasps  before; 
A  light-green  tuft  of  plumes  she  bore 

Clos'd  in  a  golden  ring. 

Now  on  some  twisted  ivy-net, 

Now  by  some  tinkling  rivulet, 

In  mosses  mixt  with  violet 

Her  cream-white  mule  his  pastern  set; 

And  fleeter  now  she  skimm'd  the  plains 


308  THE  EAGLE. 


Than  she  whose  elfin  prancer  springs 
By  night  to  eery  warblings, 
When  all  the  glimmering  moorland  rings 
With  jingling  bridle-reins. 

As  she  fled  fast  thro'  sun  and  shade, 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  play'd, 
Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid: 
She  look'd  so  lovely  as  she  sway'd 

The  rein  with  dainty  finger  tips, 
A  man  had  given  all  other  bliss, 
And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this, 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 

Upon  her  perfect  lips. 


,*+*?~3k'99f£9f5^£,+m 


THE  EAGLE, 


FRAGMENT. 


He  clasps  the  crag  with  h  joked  hands; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ring'd  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 

The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 


THE  REGGAR  MAID. 


309 


THE  BEGGAR  MAID. 


ER  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid: 
She  was  more  fair  than  words  can  say 
€te***  Barefooted  came  the  beggar  maid 
Before  the  king  Cophetua. 
In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stept  down, 

To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way ! 
"  It  is  no  wonder,"  said  the  lords, 
"  She  is  more  beautiful  than  day." 


As  shines  the  moon  in  clouded  skies, 
She  in  her  poor  attire  was  seen : 

One  prais'd  her  ankles,  one  her  eyes, 
One  her  dark  hair  and  lovesome  mem. 


310 


A  FAREWELL. 


So  sweet  a  face,  such  angel  grace, 
In  all  that  land  had  never  been : 

Cophetua  sware  a  royal  oath: 

"  This  beggar  maid  shall  be  my  queen! 


■•^3K3il&*£3*« 


A  FAREWELL. 


OW  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea, 
Thy  tribute  wave  deliver: 
'  ^N  No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
Forever  and  forever. 


Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A  rivulet  then  a  river: 
Nowhere  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

Forever  and  forever. 


But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder  tree, 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver; 

And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee, 
Forever  and  forever. 

A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A  thousand  moons  will  quiver; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
Forever  and  forever. 


"Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 
A  rivulet  then  a  river." 


THE   VISION  OF  SIN. 


311 


THE    VISION  OR  SIN. 


^**W%* 


«$m& 


HAD  a  vision  when  the  night  was  late: 
A  youth  came  riding  toward  a  palace-gate. 
^jjglfcHe  rode  a  horse  with  wings,  that  would  have  flown, 

c>  *&-4£  J  S^J^.,^'     '*ut  tnat  ms  heavy  rider  kept  him  down. 
5  «S^"^    ^    '"'ife'^      *'^,K^  from  the  palace  came  a  child    (rf  sin, 
gr-r<-  -^ -^   .  -4     :*};'<     \"(1  took  him  by  the  curls,  and  led  him  in, 
^£   '  i&  ^^^    Where  sat  a  company  with  heated  eyes, 

]L^*£e       Expecting  when  a  fountain  should  arise: 
!?V  i  J&       A  sleepy  light  upon  their  brows  and  lips — 
Sfr£       As  when  the  sun,  a  crescent  of  eclipse, 

Dreams  over  lake  and  lawn,  and  isles  and  capes — 

Suffus'd  them,  sitting,  lying,  languid  shapes, 

By  heaps  of  gourds,  and  skins  of  wine,  and  piles  of  grapes. 


ii. 


Then  methought  I  heard  a  mellow  sound, 

Gathering  up  from  all  the  lower  ground; 

Narrowing  in  to  where  they  sat  assembled 

Low  voluptuous  music  winding  trembled, 

Wov'n  in  circles:  they  that  heard  it  sigh'd, 

Panted  hand  in  hand  with  faces  pale, 

Swung  themselves,  and  in  low  tones  replied; 

Till  the  fountain  spouted,  showering  wide 

Sleet  of  diamond-drift  and  pearly  hail ; 

Then  the  music  touched  the  gates  and  died; 

Rose  again  from  where  it  seem'd  to  fail, 

Storm 'd  in  orbs  of  song,  a  growing  gale; 

Till  thronging  in  and  in,  to  where  they  waited, 

As  't  were  a  hundred-throated  nightingale, 

The  strong  tempestuous  treble  throbb'd  and  palpitated; 

Ran  into  its  giddiest  whirl  of  sound, 

Caught  the  sparkles,  and  in  circles, 

Purple  gauzes,  golden  hazes,  liquid  mazes, 

Flung  the  torrent  rainbow  round: 

Then  they  started  from  their  places, 

Moved  with  violence,  chang'd  in  hue, 


312  THE   VISION  OF  SIN 

Caught  each  other  with  wild  grimaces, 
Half-invisible  to  the  view , 
Wheeling  with  precipitate  paces 
To  the  melody,  till  the}'  flew, 
Hair,  and  eyes,  and  limbs',  and  faces, 
Twisted  hard  in  fierce  embraces, 
Like  to  Furies,  like  to  Graces, 
Dash'd  together  in  blinding  dew: 
Till,  kill'd  with  some  luxurious  agony, 
The  nerve-dissolving  melody 
Flutter'd  headlong  from  the  sky. 


in. 


And  then  I  look'd  up  toward  a  mountain-tract, 
That  girt  the  region  with  high  cliff  and  lawn: 
I  saw  that  every  morning,  far  withdrawn 
Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  cataract, 
God  made'  himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn, 
Unheeded :  and  detaching,  fold  by  fold, 
From  those  still  heights,  and,  slowly  drawing  near, 
A  vapor  heavy,  hueless,  formless,  cold, 
Came  floating  on  for  many  a  month  and  year, 
Unheeded :  and  I  thought  I  would  have  spoken, 
And  warn'd  that  madman  ere  it  grew  too  late: 
But,  as  in  dreams,  I  could  not.      Mine  was  broken, 
When  that  cold  vapor  touch'd  the  palace-gate, 
And  link'd  again.      I  saw  within  my  head 
A  gray  and  gap-tooth'd  man  as  lean  as  death, 
Who  slowly  rode  across  a  wither'd  heath, 
And  lighted  at  a  ruin'd  inn  and  said: 


IV. 

"  Wrinkled  ostler,  grim  and  thin! 

Here  is  custom  come  your  way, 
Take  my  brute,  and  lead  him  in, 

Stuff  his  ribs  with  mouldy  hay. 

"  Bitter  bar-maid,  waning  fast! 

See  that  sheets  are  on  my  bed; 
What!  the  flower  of  life  is  past: 

It  is  long  before  you  wed. 


THE   VISION  OF  SIN.  313 


"  Slip-shod  waiter,  lank  and  sour, 
At  the  Dragon  on  the  heath! 

Let  us  have  a  quiet  hour, 

Let  us  hob-and-nob  with  Death. 

"  I  am  old,  but  let  me  drink; 

Bring  me  spices,  bring  me  wine*, 
I  remember,  when  I  think, 

That  my  youth  was  half  divine. 

"  Wine  is  good  for  shrivell'd  lips, 
When  a  blanket  wraps  the  day, 

When  the  rotten  woodland  drips, 
And  the  leaf  is  stamp'd  in  clay. 

"  Sit  thee  down,  and  have  no  shame, 
Cheek  by  jowl,  and  knee  by  knee: 

What  care  I  for  any  name? 
What  for  order  or  degree? 

u  Let  me  screw  thee  up  a  peg : 

Let  me  loose  thy  tongue  with  wine: 

Callest  thou  that  thing  a  leg? 

Which  is  thinnest?  thine  or  mine? 

"  Thou  shalt  not  be  saved  by  works: 

Thou  hast  been  a  sinner  too: 
RuinM  trunks  on  wither'd  forks, 

Empty  scarecrows,  I  and  you! 

"  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can: 
Have  a  rouse  before  the  morn: 

Every  moment  dies  a  man, 
Every  moment  one  is  born. 

"  We  are  men  of  ruin'd  blood ; 

Therefore  comes  it  we  are  wise. 
Fish  are  we  that  love  the  mud, 

Rising  to  no  fancy-flies. 

"Name  and  fame!  to  fly  sublime 

Thro'  the  courts,  the  camps,  the  schools 


814  THE   VISION  OF  SIN. 


Is  to  be  the  ball  of  Time, 

Bandied  in  the  hands  of  fools. 

44  Friendship! — to  be  two  in  one — 

Let  the  canting  liar  pack! 
Well  I  know,  when  I  am  gone, 

How  she  mouths  behind  my  back 

"  Virtue ! — to  be  good  and  just — 
Every  heart,  when  sifted  well, 

Is  a  c-lot  of  warmer  dust, 

Mix'd  with  cunning  sparks  of  hell. 

u  O!  we  too  as  well  can  look 

Whited  thought  and  cleanly  life 

As  the  priest,  above  his  book 
Leering  at  his  neighbor's  wife. 

"  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can : 
Have  a  rouse  before  the  morn 

Every  moment  dies  a  man, 
Every  moment  one  is  born. 

"Drink,  and  let  the  parties  rave; 

They  are  fill'd  with  idle  spleen* 
Rising,  falling,  like  a  wave, 

For  they  know  not  what  they  mean. 

"He  that  roars  for  liberty 

Faster  binds  a  tyrant's  power* 

And  the  tyrant's  cruel  glee 
Forces  on  the  freer  hour. 

*«  Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup: 
All  the  windy  ways  of  men 

Are  but  dust  that  rises  up, 
And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

"  Greet  her  with  applausive  breath, 
Freedom,  gayly  doth  she  tread; 

In  her  right  a  civic  wreath, 
In  her  left  a  human  head. 


THE   VISION  OF  SIN.  315 


u  No,  I  love  not  what  is  new; 

She  is  of  an  ancient  house; 
And  I  think  we  know  the  hue 

Of  that  cap  upon  her  brows. 

"  Let  her  go!  her  thirst  she  slakes 
Where  the  bloody  conduit  runs: 

Then  her  sweetest  meal  she  makes 
On  the  first-born  of  her  sons. 

"  Drink  to  lofty  hopes  that  cool- 
Visions  of  a  perfect  State  : 

Drink  we,  last,  the  public  fool, 
Frantic  love  and  frantic  hate. 

"Chant  me  now  souk-  wicked  stave, 

Till  thy  drooping  courage  rise, 
And  the  glow-worm  of  the  grave 

Glimmer  in  thy  rheumy  eyes. 

u  Pear  not  thou  to  loose  thy  tongue: 
Set  thy  hoary  fancies  free; 

What  is  loathsome  to  the  young 
Savors  well  to  thee  and  me. 

-  Change,  reverting  to  the  years, 
When  thy  nerves  could  understand 

What  there  is  in  loving  tears, 

And  the  warmth  of  hand  in  hand. 

"Tell  me  tales  of  thy  first  love — 
April  hopes,  the  fools  of  chance: 

Till  the  graves  begin  to  move, 
And  the  dead  begin  to  dance. 

"  Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup: 
All  the  windy  ways  of  men 

Are  but  dust  that  rises  up, 
And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

"  Trooping  from  their  mouldy  dens 
The  chap-fallen  circle  spreads: 


816  THE   VISION  OF  SIN. 


Welcome,  fellow-citizens, 

Hollow  hearts  and  empty  heads! 

"  You  are  bones,  and  what  of  that?# 

Every  face,  however  full, 
Padded  round  with  flesh  and  fat, 

Is  but  modell'd  on  a  skull. 

"  Death  is  king,  and  Vivat  Rex! 

Tread  a  measure  on  the  stones, 
Madam — if  I  know  your  sex, 

From  the  fashion  of  your  bones. 

"  No,  I  cannot  praise  the  fire 
In  your  eye — nor  yet  your  lip: 

All  the  more  do  I  admire 

Joints  of  cunning  workmanship. 

i4  Lo!  God's  likeness — the  ground-plan 
Neither  modell'd,  glazed,  or  framed: 

Buss  me,  thou  rough  sketch  of  man, 
Far  too  naked  to  be  shamed! 

"  Drink  to  Fortune,  drink  to  Chance, 
While  we  keep  a  little  breath! 

Drink  to  heavy  Ignorance! 

Hob-and-nob  with  brother  Death! 

"  Thou  art  mazed,  the  night  is  long, 
And  the  longer  night  is  near: 

What!  I  am  not  all  as  wrong 
As  a  bitter  jest  is  dear. 

"Youthful  hopes,  by  scores,  to  all, 
When  the  locks  are  crisp  and  curl'd; 

Unto  me  my  maudlin  gall 

And  my  mockeries  of  the  world. 

"  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can ! 

Mingle  madness,  mingle  scorn! 
Dregs  of  life,  and  lees  of  man: 

Yet  we  will  not  die  forlorn." 


MOVE  EASTWARD,  HAPPT  EARTH.  317 


The  voice  grew  faint:  there  came  a  further  change; 

Once  more  uprose  the  mystic  mountain  range: 

Below  were  men  and  horses  pierc'd  with  worms, 

And  slowly  quickening  into  lower  forms; 

By  shards  and  scurf  of  salt,  and  scum  of  dross, 

Old  plash  of  rains,  and  refuse  patch'd  with  moss. 

Then  some  one  spake:  "  Behold!  it  was  a  crime 

Of  sense  aveng'd  by  sense  that  wore  with  time." 

Another  said:  "  The  crime  of  sense  became 

The  crime  of  malice,  and  is  equal  blame." 

And  one:  "  He  had  not  wholly  quench'd  his  power; 

A  little  grain  of  conscience  made  him  sour." 

At  last  I  heard  a  voice  upon  the  slope 

Cry  to  the  summit,  "  Is  there  any  hope?" 

To  which  an  answer  peal'd  from  that  high  land, 

But  in  a  tongue  no  man  could  understand; 

And  on  the  glimmering  limit  far  withdrawn 

God  made  himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn. 


■•- ^-^:::c#^ 


MOVE  EASTWARD,  HAPPT  EARTH. 


OVE  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave 
Yon  orange  Bunset  waning  slow: 

From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 
O,  happy  planet,  eastward  go: 

Till  over  thy  dark  shoulder  glow 
Thy  silver  sister-world,  and  rise 

To  glass  herself  in  dewy  eyes 
That  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 


Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  lightly  borne, 
Dip  forward  under  starry  light, 

And  move  me  to  my  marriage  morn, 
And  round  again  to  happy  night. 


818 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK. 


W 


@1]£REAK,  break,  break, 

sOn  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay! 


And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still! 


Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


.©.ra  .©.  Gil  .©.[HI  .©.  Cfil.©.ra  .©.  Gfl.©.ra  .©.  G7L©.ra  •©• 


GJLb^M 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY. 


321 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 


PROLOGUE. 


IR  WALTER  VIVIAN  all  a  summer's  day 
Gave  his  broad  lawns  until  the  set  of  sun 
Up  to  the  people:  thither  flock'd  at  noon 
Hw  tenants,  wife  and  child,  and  thither  half 
The  neighboring  borough  with  their  Institute 
Of  which  lie  was  the  patron.     I  was  there 
From  college,  visiting  the  son, — the  son 
A  Walter  too, — with  others  of  our  set, 
Five  others:  we  were  seven  at  Vivian-place. 

And  me  that  morning  Walter  show'd  the  house 
Greek,  set  with  busts:  from  vases  in  the  hall 
Flowers  of  all  heavens,  and  lovelier  than  their  names, 
Grew  side  by  side;  and  on  the  pavement  lay 
CarvM  atones  of  the  Abbey-ruin  in  the  park. 
Huge  Ammonites,  and  the  first  bones  of  Time; 
And  on  the  tables  every  clime  and  age 
Jumbled  together;  celts  and  calumets, 
Claymore  and  snow-shoe,  toys  in  lava,  fans 
Of  sandal,  amber,  ancient  rosaries, 
Laborious  orient  ivory  sphere  in  sphere, 
The  curs'd  Malayan  crease,  and  battle-clubs 
From  the  isles  of  palm:  and  higher  on  the  walls, 
Betwixt  the  monstrous  horns  of  elk  and  deer, 
His  own  forefathers7  arms  and  armor  hung. 


And  "  this,"  he  said,  "  was  Hugh's  at  Agincourt; 
And  that  was  old  Sir  Ralph's  at  Ascalon : 
A  good  knight  he!  we  keep  a  chronicle 
With  all  about  him,"  which  he  brought,  and  I 
Dived  in  a  hoard  of  tales  that  dealt  with  knights 
Half-legend,  half-historic,  counts  and  kings 
Who  laid  about  them  at  their  wills  and  died; 
And  mixt  with  these,  a  lady,  one  that  arm'd 
Her  own  fair  head,  and  sallying  thro'  the  gate, 
Had  beat  her  foes  with  slaughter  from  her  ~valls. 


n 


322  THE  PRINCESS:  A  MED  LET. 

"  O  miracle  of  woman,"  said  the  book, 
"  O  noble  heart  who,  being  strait-besieg'd 
By  this  wild  king  to  force  her  to  his  wish, 
Nor  bent,  nor  broke,  nor  shunn'd  a  soldier's  death, 
But  now  when  all  was  lost  or  seem'd  as  lost — 
Her  stature  more  than  mortal  in  the  burst 
Of  sunrise,'  her  arm  lifted,  eyes  on  fire — 
Brake  with  a  blast  of  trumpets  from  the  gate, 
And,  falling  on  them  like  a  thunderbolt, 
She  trampled  some  beneath  her  horses'  heels, 
And  some  were  whelm'd  with  missiles  of  the  wall, 
And  some  were  push'd  with  lances  from  the  rock, 
And  part  were  drown'd  within  the  whirling  brook: 
O  miracle  of  noble  womanhood!" 

So  sang  the  gallant  glorious  chronicle; 
And,  I  all  rapt  in  this,  "  Come  out,"  he  said, 
"  To  the  Abbey:  there  is  Aunt  Elizabeth 
And  sister  Lilia  with  the  rest."     We  went 
(I  kept  the  book  and  had  my  finger  in  it) 
Down  thro'  the  park:  strange  was  the  sight  to  me; 
For  all  the  sloping  pasture  murmur'd,  sown 
With  happy  faces  and  with  holiday. 
There  moved  the  multitude,  a  thousand  heads : 
The  patient  leaders  of  their  Institute 
Taught  them  with  facts.     One  rear'd  a  font  of  stone 
And  drew  from  butts  of  water  on  the  slope, 
The  fountain  of  the  moment,  playing  now 
A  twisted  snake,  and  now  a  rain  of  pearls, 
Or  steep-up  spout  whereon  the  gilded  ball 
Danc'd  like  a  wisp:   and  somewhat  lower  down, 
A  man  with  knobs  and  wires  and  vials  fired 
A  cannon :   Echo  answer'd  in  her  sleep 
From  hollow  fields:  and  here  were  telescopes 
For  azure  views:  and  there  a  group  of  girls 
In  circle  waited,  whom  the  electric  shock 
Dislink'd  with  shrieks  and  laughter:  i*ound  the  lake 
A  little  clock-work  steamer  paddling  plied 
And  shook  the  lilies;  perch'd  about  the  knolls 
A  dozen  angry  models  jetted  steam : 
A  petty  railway  ran:  a  fire-balloon 
Rose  gem -like  up  before  the  dusky  groves 
And  dropt  a  fairy  parachute  and  past: 
And  there  thro'  twenty  posts  of  telegraph 
They  flash'd  a  saucy  message  to  and  fro 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY.  323 


Between  the  mimic  stations;  so  that  sport 
Went  hand  in  hand  with  Science;  otherwhere 
Pure  sport:  a  herd  of  boys  with  clamor  bowl'd 
And  stump'd  the  wicket;  babies  roll'd  about 
Like  tumbled  fruit  in  grass;  and  men  and  maids 
Arrang'd  a  country  dance,  and  flew  thro'  light 
And  shadow,  while  the  twangling  violin 
Struck  up  with  Soldier-laddie,  and  overhead 
The  broad  ambrosial  aisles  of  lofty  lime 
Made  noise  with  bees  and  breeze  from  eiid  to  end. 

Strange  was  the  sight  and  smacking  of  the  time; 
And  long  we  gazed,  but  satiated  at  length 
Came  to  the  ruins.     High-arch'd  and  ivy-claspt, 
Of  finest  Gothic  lighter  than  a  fire, 
Thro' one  wide  chasm  of  time  and  frost  they  gave 
The  park,  the  crowd,  the  house;  but  all  within 
The  sw..rd  was  trim  as  any  garden  lawn: 
And  here  we  lit  on  Aunt  Elizabeth, 
And  Lilia  with  the  rest,  and  lady  friends 
From  neighbor  seats:  and  there  was  Ralph  himself, 
>\  broken  statue  propt  against  the  wall, 
As  gay  as  any.     Lilia  wild  with  sport, 
Half  child,  half  woman  as  she  was,  had  wound 
A  scarf  of  orange  round  the  stony  helm, 
And  robed  the  shoulders  in  a  rosy  silk, 
That  made  the  old  warrior  from  his  ivied  nook 
Glow  like  a  sunbeam:  near  his  tomb  a  feast 
Shone,  silver-set;    about  it  lay  the  guests, 
And  there  we  joinM  them:  then  the   maiden  Aunt 
Took  this  fair  day  for  text,  and  from  it  preach'd 
An  universal  culture  for  the  crowd, 
And  all  things  great;  but  we,  unworthier,  told 
Of  college:  he  had  climb'd  across  the  spikes, 
And  Ik-  had  squeez'd  himself  betwixt  the  bars, 
And  lie  had  breath'd  the  Proctor's  dogs;  and  one 
Discu>s\l  his  tutor,  rough  to  common  men, 
But  honeying  at  the  whisper  of  a  lord  ; 
And  one  the  Master,  as  a  rogue  in  grain, 
Veneer'd  with  sanctimonious  theory. 

But  while  they  talk'd,  above  their  heads  I  saw 
The  feudal  warrior  lady-clad;  which  brought 
My  book  to  mind:  and  opening  this  I  read 
Of  old  Sir  Ralph  a  page  or  two  that  rang 


324  •    THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY. 

With  tilt  and  tourney;  then  the  tale  of  her 
That  drove  her  foes  with  slaughter  from  her  walls, 
And  much  I  prais'd  her  nobleness,  and  "  Where," 
Ask'd  Walter,  patting  Lilia's  head  (she  lay 
Beside  him)  "  lives  there  such  a  woman  now?" 

Quick  answer'd  Lilia,  "  There  are  thousands  now 
Such  women,  but  convention  beats  them  down: 
It  is  but  bringing  up;  no  more  than  that: 
You  men  have  done  it;  how   I  hate  you  all! 
Ah!  were  I  something1  great!   I  wish  I  were 
Some  mighty  poetess,  I  would  shame  you  then, 
That  love  to  keep  us  children !     O  I  wish 
That  I  were  some  great  princess,  I  would  build 
Far  off  from  men  a  college  like  a  man's, 
And  I  would  teach  them  all  that  men  are  taught; 
We  are  twice  as  quick!"      And  he^re  she  shook  aside 
The  hand  that  played  the  patron  with  her  curls. 

And  one  said  smiling,  "  Pretty  were  the  sight 
If  our  old  halls  could  change  their  sex,  and  flaunt 
With  prudes  for  proctors,  dowagers  for  deans, 
And  sweet  girl-graduates  in  their  golden  hair. 
I  think  they  should  not  wear  our  rusty  gowns, 
But  move  as  rich  as  Emperor-moths  or  Ralph 
Who  shines  so  in  the  corner:  yet  I  fear, 
If  there  were  many  Lilias  in  the  brood, 
However  deep  you  might  embower  the  nest 
Some  boy  would  spy  it." 

At  this  upon  the  sward 
She  tapt  her  tiny  silken-sandal'd  foot: 
"  That's  your  light  way :  but  I  would  make  it  death 
For  any  male  thing  but  to  peep  at  us." 

Petulant  she  spoke,  and  at  herself  she  laugh'd ; 
A  rose-bud  set  with  little  wilful  thorns, 
And  sweet  as  English  air  could  make  her,  she: 
But  Walter  hail'd  a  score  of  names  upon  her, 
And  "  petty  Ogress,"  and  "ungrateful  Puss," 
And  swore  he  long'd  at  college,  only  long'd, 
All  else  was  well,  for  she^society. 
They  boated  and  they  cricketed;  they  talk'd 
At  wine,  in  clubs,  of  art,  of  politics ; 
They  lost  their  weeks;  they  vext  the  souls  of  deans; 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY.  325 

They  rode;  they  betted;  made  a  hundred  friends, 
And  caught  the  blossom  of  the  flying  terms, 
Hut  miss'd  the  mignonette  of  Vivian-place, 
The  little  hearth-flower  Lilia.     Thus  he  spoke, 
Part  banter,  part  affection. 

"True,"  she  said. 
u  We  doubt  not  that.     O  yes,  you  miss'd  us  much. 
I'll  stake  my  ruby  ring  upon  it,  you  did." 

She  held  it  out;  and  as  a  parrot  turns 
Up  thro'  gilt  wires  a  crafty  loving  eye, 
And  takes  a  lady's  finger  with  all  care, 
And  bites  it  for  true  heart  and  not  for  harm, 
So  he  with  Lilia's.     Daintily  she  shriek'd 
And  wrung  it.     "  Doubt  my  word  again !  "  he  said. 
"  Come,  listen!  here  is  proof  that  you  were  miss'd: 
We  seven  stay'd  at  Christmas  up  to  read, 
And  there  we  took  one  tutor  as  to  read : 
The  hard-grain'd  Muses  of  the  cube  and  square 
Were  out  of  season:  never  man,  I  think, 
So  moulder'd  in  a  sinecure  as  he: 
For  while  our  cloisters  echo'd  frosty  feet, 
And  our  long  walks  were  stript  as  bare  as  brooms, 
We  did  but  talk  you  over,  pledge  you  all 
In  wassail:  often,  like  as  many  girls — 
Sick  for  the  hollies  and  the  yews  of  home — 
As  main   little  trifling  Lilias — playM 
Charades  and  riddles  as  at  Christmas  here, 
And  whaCs  my  thought  and  when  and  where  and  how, 
And  often  told  a  tale  from  mouth  to  mouth 
As  here  at  Christmas.*' 

She  remembered   that: 
A  pleasant  game,  she  thought:  she  liked  it  more 
Than  magic  music,  forfeits,  all  the  rest. 
But  these — what  kind  of  tales  did  men  tell  men, 
She  wonderM,  by  themselves? 

A  half-disdain 
Perch'd  on  the  pouted  blossom  of  her  lips: 
And  Walter  nodded  at  me;     He  began, 
The  rest  would  follow,  each  in  turn;  and  so 
We  forg'd  a  sevenfold  story.     Kind?  what  kind? 
Chimeras,  crotchets,  Christmas  solecisms, 
Seven-headed  monsters  only  made  to  kill 
Time  by  the  fire  in  winter." 


326  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 

"  Kill  him  now, 
The  tyrant!  kill  him  in  the  summer  too," 
Said  Lilia;  "Why  not  now,"  the  maiden  Aunt. 
"  Why  not  a  summer's  as  a  winter's  tale? 
A  tale  for  summer  as  befits  the  time, 
And  something  it  should  be  to  suit  the  place-, 
Heroic,  for  a  hero  lies  beneath, 
Grave,  solemn ! " 

Walter  warp'd  his  mouth  at  this 
To  something  so  mock-solemn,  that  I  laugh'd 
And  Lilia  woke  with  sudden-shrilling  mirth 
And  echo  like  a  ghostly  woodpecker, 
Hid  in  the  ruins;  till  the  maiden  Aunt 
(A  little  sense  of  wrong  had  touch'd  her  face 
With  color)  turn'd  to  me  with  "  As  you  will; 
Heroic  if  you  will,  or  what  you  will, 
Or  be  yourself  your  hero  if  you  will." 
"  Take  Lilia,  then,  for  heroine,"  clamor'd  he, 
"  And  make  her  some  great  Princess,  six  feet  high, 
Grand,  epic,  homicidal;  and  be  you 
The  Prince  to  win  her!" 

"  Then  follow  me,  the  Prince," 
I  answer'd,  "  each  be  hero  in  his  turn! 
,  Seven  and  yet  one,  like  shadows  in  a  dream. — 
Heroic  seems  our  Princess  as  requir'd — 
But  something  made  to  suit  with  time  and  place, 
A  Gothic  ruin  and  a  Grecian  house, 
A  talk  of  college  and  of  ladies'  rights, 
A  feudal  knight  in  silken  masquerade, 
And,  yonder,  shrieks  and  strange  experiments 
For  which  the  good  Sir  Ralph  had  burnt  them  all  • 
This  were  a  medley!  we  should  have  him  back 
Who  told  the  '  Winter's  tale  '  to  do  it  for  us. 
No  matter:   we  will  say  whatever  comes. 
And  let  the  ladies  sing  us,  if  they  will, 
From  time  to  time,  some  ballad  or  a  song 
To  give  us  breathing-space." 

So  I  began, 
And  the  rest  follow'd :  and  the  women  sang 
Between  the  rougher  voices  of  the  men, 
Like  linnets  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind : 
And  here  I  give  the  story  and  the  songs. 


Q<5^- 


'And  echo  like  a  ghostly  woodpecker.' 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY.  327 


A  Prince  I  was,  blue-eyed,  and  fair  in  face, 
Of  temper  amorous,  as  the  first  of  May, 
With  lengths  of  yellow  ringlet,  like  a  girl, 
For  on  my  cradle  shone  the  Northern  star. 

There  lived  an  ancient  legend  in  our  house. 
Some  sorcerer,  whom  a  far-off  grandsire  burnt 
Because  he  cast  no  shadow,  had  foretold, 
Dying,  that  none  of  all  our  blood  should  know 
The  shadow  from  the  substance,  and  that  one 
Should  come  to  fight  with  shadows  and  to  fall. 
For  so,  my  mother  said,  the  story  ran, 
And,  truly,  waking  dreams  were,  more  or  less, 
An  old  and  strange  affection  of  the  house. 
Myself,  too,  had  weird  seizures,  Heaven  knows  what: 
On  a  sudden  in  the  midst  of  men  and  day, 
And  while  I  walk'd  and  talk'd  as  heretofore, 
I  seem'd  to  move  among  a  world  of  ghosts, 
And  feel  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 
Our  great  court-Galen  pois'd  his  gilt-head  cane, 
And  pawM  his  beard,  and  mutter'd  "catalepsy." 
My  mother  pitying,  made  a  thousand  prayers; 
My  mother  was  as  mild  as  any  saint, 
Half-canoniz'd  by  all  that  look'd  on  her, 
So  gracious  was  her  tact  and  tenderness: 
But  my  good  father  thought  a  king  a  king; 
He  cared  not  for  the  affection  of  the  house; 
He  held  his  sceptre  like  a  pedant's  wand 
To  lash  offence,  and  with  long  arms  and  hands 
Reach'd  out,  and  pick'd  offenders  from  the  mass 
For  judgment. 

Now  it  chanced  that  I  had  been, 
While  life  was  yet  in  bud  and  blade,  betroth'd 
To  one,  a  neighboring  Princess:  she  to  me 
Was  proxy-wedded  with  a  bootless  calf 
At  eight  years  old;  and  still  from  time  to  time 
Came  murmurs  of  her  beauty  from  the  South, 
And  of  her  brethren,  youths  of  puissance; 
And  still  I  wore  her  picture  by  my  heart, 
And  one  dark  tress;  and  all  around  them  both 
Sweet  thoughts  would  swarm  as  bees  about  their  queen. 


528  THE  PRINCESS:  A  MED  LET. 

But  when  the  days  drew  nigh  that  I  should  wed, 
My  father  sent  ambassadors  with  furs 
And  jewels,  gifts,  to  fetch  her:  these  brought  back 
A  present,  a  great  labor  of  the  loom ; 
And  therewithal  an  answer  vague  as  wind : 
Besides,  they  saw  the  king;  he  took  the  gifts; 
He  said  there  was  a  compact;  that  was  true: 
But  then  she  had  a  will;  was  he  to  blame? 
And  maiden  fancies;  loved  to  live  alone 
Among  her  women;  certain,  would  not  wed. 

That  morning  in  the  presence  room  I  stood 
With  Cyril  and  with  Florian,  my  two  friends: 
The  first,  a  gentleman  of  broken  means 
(His  father's  fault)  but  given  to  starts  and  bursts 
Of  revel;  and  the  last,  my  other  heart, 
And  almost  my  half-self,  for  still  we  moved 
Together,  twinn'd  as  horse's  ear  and  eye. 

Now,  while  they  spake,  I  saw  my  father's  face 
Grow  long  and  troubled  like  a  rising  moon, 
Inflam'd  with  wrath :  he  started  on  his  feet, 
Tore  the  king's  letter,  snow'd  it  down,  and  rent 
The  wonder  of  the  loom  thro'  warp  and  woof 
From  skirt  to  skirt;  and  at  the  last  he  sware 
That  he  would  send  a  hundred  thousand  men, 
And  bring  her  in  a  whirlwind:  then  he  chew'd 
The  thrice-turn'd  cud  of  wrath,  and  cook'd  his  spleen. 
Communing  with  his  captains  of  the  war. 

At  last  I  spoke.     "My  father,  let  me  go. 
It  cannot  be  but  some  gross  error  lies 
In  this  report,  this  answer  of  a  king, 
Whom  all  men  rate  as  kind  and  hospitable: 
Or,  maybe,  I  myself,  my  bride  once  seen, 
Whate'er  my  grief  to  find  her  less  than  fame, 
May  rue  the  bargain  made."     And  Florian  said: 
"  I  have  a  sister  at  the  foreign  court, 
Who  moves  about  the  Princess;  she,  you  know, 
Who  wedded  with  a  nobleman  from  thence: 
He,  dying  lately,  left  her,  as  I  hear, 
The  lady  of  three  castles  in  that  land : 
Thro'  her  this  matter  might  be  sifted  clean." 
And  Cyril  whisper'd :  "  Take  me  with  you  too." 


iiyiii%«. 


^£™|J 


"  High-arch'd  and  ivy-claspt, 
Of  finest  Gothic  lighter  than  a  fire." 

Seepage  33 j. 


TVS  P2JJ7GSSS:  A  H&DJLBT.  ^2$ 


Then  laughing  "  what,  if  these  weird  seizures  come 
Upon  you  in  those  lands,  and  no  one  near 
To  point  you  out  the  shadow  from  the  truth! 
Take  me;  I'll  serve  you  better  in  a  strait; 
I  grate  on  rusty  hinges  here:  "  but  "No!" 
Roar'd  the  rough  king,  "you  shall  not;   we  ourself 
Will  crush  her  pretty  maiden  fancies  dead 
In  iron  gauntlets:  break  the  council  up." 

But  when  the  council  broke,  I  rose  and  past 
Thro'  the  wild  woods  that  hung  about  the  town; 
Found  a  still  place,  and  pluck'd  her  likeness  out; 
Laid  it  on  flowers,  and  watch'd  it  lying  bathed 
In  the  green  gleam  of  dewy-tasselPd  trees: 
What  were  those  fancies?  wherefore  break  her  troth? 
Proud  lookM  the  lips:  but  while  I  meditated 
A  wind  arose  and  rush'd  upon  the  South, 
And  shook  the  songs,  the  whispers,  and  the  shrieks 
Of  the  wild  woods  together;  and  a  Voice 
Went  with  it,  "  Follow,  follow,  thou  shalt  win." 

Then,  ere  the  silver  sickle  of  that  month 
Became  her  golden  shield,  I  stole  from  court 
With  Cyril  and  with  Florian,  unperceiv'd, 
Cat-footed  thro'  the  town,  and  half  in  dread 
To  hear  my  father's  clamor  at  our  backs 
With  Ho!  from  some  bay-window  shake  the  night; 
But  all  was  quiet:  from  the  bastion'd  walls, 
Like  threaded  spiders,  one  by  one,  we  dropt, 
And  flying  reachVl  the  frontier:  then  we  crost 
To  a  livelier  land;  and  so  by  tilth  and  grange, 
And  vines,  and  blowing  bosks  of  wilderness, 
We  gain'd  the  mother-city  thick  with  towers, 
And  in  the  imperial  palace  found  the  king. 

His  name  was  Gama;  crack'd  and  small  his  voice, 
But  bland  the  smile  that  like  a  wrinkling  wind 
On  glassy  water  drove  his  cheek  in  lines; 
A  little  dry  old  man,  without  a  star, 
Not  like  a  king:  three  days  he  feasted  us, 
And  on  the  fourth  I  spake  of  why  we  came, 
And  my  betroth'd.     "  You  do  us,  Prince,"  he  said, 
Airing  a  snowy  hand  and  signet  gem, 
44  All  honor.     We  remember  love  ourselves 


330  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY. 

In  our  sweet  youth :  there  did  a  compact  pass 

Long  summers  back,  a  kind  of  ceremony — 

I  think  the  year  in  which  our  olives  fail'd. 

I  would  you  had  her,  Prince,  with  all  my  heart, 

With  my  full  heart:  but  there  were  widows  here 

Two  widows,  lady  Psyche,  lady  Blanche, 

They  fed  her  theories,  in  and  out  of  place 

Maintaining  that  with  equal  husbandry     . 

The  woman  were  an  equal  to  the  man. 

They  harp'd  on  this;  with  this  our  banquets  rang; 

Our  dances  broke  and  buzz'd  in  knots  of  talk; 

Nothing  but  this;  my  very  ears  were  hot 

To  hear  them:  knowledge,  so  my  daughter  held, 

Was  all  in  all ;  they  had  but  been,  she  thought, 

As  children;  they  must  lose  the  child,  assume 

The  woman:  then,  Sir,  awful  odes  she  wrote, 

Too  awful,  sure,  for  what  they  treated  of, 

But  all  she  is  and  does  is  awful ;  odes 

About  this  losing  of  the  child ;  and  rhymes 

And  dismal  lyrics,  prophesying  change 

Beyond  all  reason:  these  the  women  sang; 

And  they  that  know  such  things — I  sought  but  peace 

No  critic  I — would  call  them   masterpieces; 

They  master'd  me.     At  last  she  begg'd  a  boon 

A  certain  summer-palace  which  I  have 

Hard  by  your  father's  frontier:  I  said  no, 

Yet  being  an  easy  man,  gave  it;  and  there, 

All  wild  to  found  a  University 

For  maidens,  on  the  spur  she  fled;  and  more 

We  know  not, — only  this;  they  see  no  men, 

Not  ev'n  her  brother  Arac,  nor  the  twins 

Her  brethren,  tho'  they  love  her,  look  upon  her 

As  on  a  kind  of  paragon;  and  I 

(Pardon  me  saying  it)  were  much  loathe  to  breed 

Dispute  betwixt  myself  and  mine;  but  since 

(And  I  confess  with  right)  you  think  me  bound 

In  some  sort,  I  can  give  you  letters  to  her; 

And  yet,  to  speak  the  truth,  I  rate  your  chance 

Almost  at  naked  nothing." 

Thus  the  king; 
And  I,  tho'  nettled  that  he  seem'd  to  slur 
With  garrulous  ease  and  oily  courtesies 
Our  formal  compact,  yet,  not  less  (all  frets 
But  chafing  me  on  fire  to  find  my  bride) 
Went  forth  again  with  both  my  friends.     We  rode 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY.  331 

Many  a  long  league  back  to  the  north.     At  last 
From  hills,  that  look'd  across  a  land  of  hope, 
We  dropt  with  evening  on  a  rustic  town 
Set  in  a  gleaming  river's  crescent-curve, 
Close  at  the  boundary  of  the  liberties; 
There  enter'd  an  old  hostel,  call'd  mine  host 
To  council,  plied  him  with  his  richest  wines, 
And  show'd  the  late-writ  letters  of  the  king. 

He  with  a  long  low  sibilation,  stared 
As  blank  as  death  in  marble;  then  exclaim'd 
Averring  it  was  clear  against  all  rules 
For  any  man  to  go:  but  as  his  brain 
Began  to  mellow,  "  If  the  king,"  he  said, 
"  Had  given  us  letters,  was  he  bound  to  speak  ? 
The  king  would  bear  him  out;"  and  at  the  last — 
The  summer  of  the  vine  in  all  his  veins — 
"  No  doubt  that  he  might  make  it  worth  his  while. 
She  once  had  past  that  way ;  he  heard  her  speak ; 
She  scared  him;  life!  he  never  saw  the  like; 
She  look'd  as  grand  as  doomsday  and  as  grave: 
And  he,  he  reverenc'd  his  liege-lady  there; 
He  always  made  a  point  to  post  with  mares; 
His  daughter  and  his  housemaid  were  the  boys: 
The  land,  he  understood,  for  miles  about 
Was  till'd  by  women;  all  the  swine  were  sows, 
And  all  the  dogs"— 

But  while  he  jested  thus, 
A  thought  flash'd  thro'  me  which  I  cloth'd  in  act, 
Remembering  how  we  three  presented  Maid 
Or  Nymph,  or  Goddess,  at  high  tide  of  feast, 
In  masque  or  pageant  at  my  father's  court. 
We  sent  mine  host  to  purchase  female  gear; 
He  brought  it,  and  himself,  a  sight  to  shake 
The  midriff  of  despair  with  laughter,  holp 
To  lace  us  up,  till,  each,  in  maiden  plumes 
We  rustled :  him  we  gave  a  costly  bribe 
To  guerdon  silence,  mounted  our  good  steeds, 
And  boldly  ventured  on  the  liberties. 

We  follow'd  up  the  river  as  we  rode, 
And  rode  till  midnight  when  the  college  lights 
Began  to  glitter  firefly-like  in  copse 
And  linden  alley :  then  we  past  an  arch, 


332 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MED  LET. 


Whereon  a  woman-statue  rose  with  wings 

From  four-wing'd  horses  dark  against  the  stars; 

And  some  inscription  ran  along  the  front, 

But  deep  in  shadow :  further  on  we  gain'd 

A  little  street,  half  garden  and  half  house; 

But  scarce  could  hear  each  other  speak  for  noise 

Of  clocks  and  chimes,  like  silver  hammers  falling 

On  silver  anvils,  and  the  splash  and  stir 

Of  fountains  spouted  up  and  showering  down 

In  meshes  of  the  jasmine  and  the  rose; 


And  all  about  us  peal'd  the  nightingale, 
Rapt  in  her  song,  and  careless  of  the  snare. 


There  stood  a  bust  of  Pallas  for  a  sign, 
By  two  sphere  lamps  blazon'd  like  Heaven  and   Earth 
With  constellation  and  with  continent, 
Above  an  entry:    riding  in,  we  call'd; 
A  plump-arm'd  Ostieress,  and  a  stable  wench 
Came  running  at  the  call,  and  help'd  us  down. 
Then  stept  a  buxom  hostess  forth,  and  sail'd, 
Full  blown,  before  us  into  rooms  which  gave 
Upon  a  pillar'd  porch,  the  bases  lost 
In  laurel :  her  we  ask'd  of  that  and  this, 
And  who  were  tutors.     "  Lady  Blanche,"  she  said, 
"  And  Lady  Psyche."     "  Which  was  prettiest, 
Best  natured?"     "  Lady  Psyche."     "  Hers  are  we," 
One  voice,  we  cried;  and  I  sat  down  and  wrote, 
In  such  a  hand  as  when  a  field  of  corn 
Bows  all  its  ears  before  the  roaring  East: 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY.  333 

"  Three  ladies  of  the  Northern  empire  pray 
Your  Highness  would  enroll  them  with  your  own, 
As  Lady  Psyche's  pupils." 

This  I  seal'd : 
The  seal  was  Cupid  bent  above  a  scroll, 
And  o'er  his  head  Uranian  Venus  hung, 
And  rais'd  the  blinding  bandage  from  his  eyes: 
I  gave  the  letter  to  be  sent  with  dawn: 
And  then  to  bed,  where  half  in  doze  I  seem'd 
To  float  about  a  glimmering  night,  and  watch 
A  full  sea  glazed  with  muffled   moonlight,  swell 
On  some  dark  shore  just  seen  that  it  was  rich. 


As  through  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears, 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
O  we  fell  out  I  know  not  why, 
And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 

And  blessings  on  the  falling  out 

That  all  the  more  endears, 
When  we  fall  out  with  those  we  love 

And  kiss  again  with  tears ! 

For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years, 
There  above  the  little  grave, 
O  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 


II. 


At  break  of  day  the  College  Portress  came: 

She  brought  us  Academic  silks,  in  hue 

The  lilac,  with  a  silken  hood  to  each, 

And  zoned  with  gold;  and  now  when  these  were  on, 

And  we  as  rich  as  moths  from  dusk  cocoons, 

She,  curtseying  her  obeisance,  let  us  know 

The  Princess  Ida  waited:  out  we  paced, 

I  first,  and  following  thro'  the  porch  that  sang 

All  round  with  laurel,  issued  in  a  court 

Compact  of  lucid  marbles,  boss'd  with  lengths 

Of  classic  frieze,  with  ample  awnings  gay 

Betwixt  the  pillars,  and  with  great  urns  of  flowers. 

The  Muses  and  the  Graces,  group'd  in  threes, 


334  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY. 

Enring'd  a  billowing  fountain  in  the  midst; 
And  here  and  there  on  lattice  edges  lay 
Or  book  or  lute;  but  hastily  we  past, 
And  up  a  flight  of  stairs  into  the  hall. 

There  at  a  board  by  tome  and  paper  sat, 
With  two  tame  leopards  couch'd  beside  her  throne, 
All  beauty  compass'd  in  a  female  form, 
The  Princess;  liker  to  the  inhabitant 
Of  some  clear  planet  close  upon  the  sun, 
Than  our  man's  earth;  such  eyes  were  in  her  head, 
And  so  much  grace  and  power,  breathing  down 
From  over  her  arch'd  brows,  with  every  turn 
Lived  thro'  her  to  the  tips  of  her  long  hands, 
And  to  her  feet.     She  rose  her  height,  and  said : 

"  We  give  you  welcome:  not  without  redound 
Of  use  and  glory  to  yourselves  ye  come, 
The  first  fruits  of  the  stranger:  aftertime, 
And  that  full  voice  which  circles  round  the  grave, 
Will  rank  you  nobly,  mingled  up  with  me. 
What!  are  the  ladies  of  your  land  so  tall?  " 
"  We  of  the  court,"  said  Cyril.     "  From  the  court," 
She  answer'd,  "  then  ye  know  the  Prince?"   and  he: 
"  The  climax  of  his  age!  as  tho'  there  were 
One  rose  in  all  the  world,  your  Highness  that, 
He  worships  your  ideal."     She  replied: 
"We  scarcely  thought  in  our  own  hall  to  hear 
This  barren  verbiage,  current  among  men, 
Like  coin,  the  tinsel  clink  of  compliment. 
Your  flight  from  out  your  bookless  wilds  would  seem 
As  arguing  love  of  knowledge  and  of  power; 
Your  language  proves  you  still  the  child.     Indeed, 
We  dream  not  of  him :  when  we  set  our  hand 
To  this  great  work,  we  purpos'd  with  ourself 
Never  to  wed.     You  likewise  will  do  well, 
Ladies,  in  entering  here,  to  cast  and  fling 
The  tricks,  which  make  us  toys  of  men,  that  so, 
Some  future  time,  if  so  indeed  you  will, 
You  may  with  those  self-styled  our  lords  ally 
Your  fortunes,  justlier  balanc'd,  scale  with  scale." 

At  those  high  words,  we,  conscious  of  ourselves, 
Perus'd  the  matting;  then  an  officer 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLBT.  335 

Rose  up,  and  read  the  statutes,  such  as  these: 

Not  for  three  years  to  correspond  with  home; 

Not  for  three  years  to  cross  the  liberties: 

Not  for  three  years  to  speak  with  any  men; 

And  many  more,  which  hastily  subscribed, 

We  enter'd  on  the  boards;  and  "Now,"  she  cried, 

«  Ye  are  green  wood,  see  ye  warp  not.     Look,  our  halh 

Our  statues! — not  of  those  that  men  desire, 

Sleek  Odalisques,  or  oracles  of  mode, 

Nor  stunted  squaws  of  West  or  East:  but  she 

That  taught  the  Sabine  how  to  rule,  and  she 

The  foundress  of  the  Babylonian  wall, 

The  Carian  Artemisia  strong  in  war, 

The  Rhodope,  that  built  the  pyramid, 

Clelia,  Cornelia,  with  the  Paln^rene 

That  fought  Aurelian,  and  the  Roman  brows 

Of  Agrippina.     Dwell  with  these  and  lose 

Convention,  since  to  look  on  noble  forms 

Makes  noble  thro'  the  sensuous  organism 

That  which  is  higher.     O  lift  your  natures  up: 

Embrace  our  aims:  work  out  your  freedom.     Girls, 

Knowledge  is  now  no  more  a  fountain  seal'd: 

Drink  deep,  until  the  habits  of  the  slave, 

The  sins  of  emptiness,  gossip  and  spite 

And  slander,  die.     Better  not  be  at  all 

Than  not  be  noble.     Leave  us:  you  may  go: 

To-day  the  Lady  Psyche  will  harangue 

The  fresh  arrivals  of  the  week  before ; 

For  they  press  in  from  all  the  provinces, 

And  fill  the  hive." 

She  spoke,  and  bowing  waved 
Dismissal:  back  again  we  crost  the  court 
To  Lady  Psyche's:  as  we  enter'd  in, 
There  sat  along  the  forms,  like  morning  doves 
That  sun  their  milky  bosoms  on  the  thatch, 
A  patient  range  of  pupils;  she  herself 
Erect  behind  a  desk  of  satin-wood, 
A  quick  brunette,  well-moulded,  falcon-eyed, 
And  on  the  hither  side,  or  so  she  look'd, 
Of  twenty  summers.     At  her  left,  a  child, 
In  shining  draperies,  headed  like  a  star, 
Her  maiden  babe,  a  double  April  old, 
Aglaia  slept.     We  sat:  the  Lady  glanc'd: 
Then  Florian,  but  no  livelier  than  the  dam© 


336  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 


That  whisper'd  "  Asses'  ears  "  among  the  sedge, 
"  My  sister."     "  Comely,  too,  by  all  that's  fair," 
Said  Cyril.     "  O  hush,  hush!"  and  she  began. 

"  This  world  was  once  a  fluid  haze  of  light, 
Till  toward  the  centre  set  the  starry  tides, 
And  eddied  into  suns,  that  wheeling  cast 
The  planets:  then  the  monster,  then  the  man; 
Tattoo'd  or  woaded,  winter-clad  in  skins, 
Raw  from  the  prime,  and  crushing  down  his  mate; 
As  yet  we  find  in  barbarous  isles,  and  here 
Among  the  lowest.". 

Thereupon  she  took 
A  bird's  eye  view  of  all  the  ungracious  past; 
Glanc'd  at  the  legendary  Amazon 
As  emblematic  of  a  nobler  age; 
Apprais'd  the  Lycian  custom,  spoke  of  those 
That  lay  at  wine  with  Lar  and  Lucumo; 
Ran  down  the  Persian,  Grecian,  Roman  lines 
Of  empire,  and  the  woman's  state  in  each, 
How  far  from  just;  till,  warming  with  her  theme, 
She  fulmin'd  out  her  scorn  of  laws  Salique 
And  little-footed  China,  touch'd  on  Mahomet 
With  much  contempt,  and  came  to  chivalry: 
When  some  respect,  however  slight,  was  paid 
To  woman,  superstition  all  awry : 
However  then  commenc'd  the  dawn:  a  beam 
Had  slanted  forward,  falling  in  a  land 
Of  promise ;  fruit  would  follow.     Deep,  indeed, 
Their  debt  of  thanks  to  her  who  first  had  dared 
To  leap  the  rotten  pales  of  prejudice, 
Disyoke  their  necks  from  custom,  and  assert 
None  lordlier  than  themselves  but  that  which  made 
Woman  and  man.     She  had  founded;  they  must  build. 
Here  might  they  learn  whatever  men  were  taught: 
Let  them  not  fear:  some  said  their  heads  were  less: 
Some  men's  were  small;  not  they  the  least  of  men; 
For  often  fineness  compensated  size: 
Besides  the  brain  was  like  the  hand,  and  grew 
With  using;  thence  the  man's,  if  more,  was  more; 
He  took  advantage  of  his  strength  to  be 
First  in  the  field:  some  ages  had  been  lost; 
But  woman  ripen'd  earlier,  and  her  life 
Was  longer;  and  albeit  their  glorious  names 
Were  fewer,  scatter'd  stars,  yet  since  in  truth 


m.  * 


Mb 


Vtf'*?^ 


j 

&•** 

m$* '>%#?  .  ->.r 

!?l| 

"Thro'  the  wild  woods  that  hung  about  the  town." 

See  page  jag. 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLET. 


337 


The  highest  is  the  measure  of  the  man, 

And  not  the  Kaffir,  Hottentot,  Malay, 

Nor  those  horn-handed  breakers  of  the  glebe. 

But  Homer,  Plato,  Verulam ;  even  so 

With  woman:  and  in  arts  of  government 

Elizabeth  and  others;  arts  of  war 

The  peasant  Joan  and  others:  arts  of  grace 

Sappho  and  others  vied  with  any  man: 

And,  last  not  least,  she  who  had  left  her  place, 

And  l>ow\l  her  state  to  them,  that  they,  might  gro  ,f 

To  use  and  power  on  this  Oasis,  lapt 

In  the  arms  of  leisure,  sacred  from  the  blight    . 

Of  ancient  influence-  and  ^-orn? 

At  last 
She  rose  upon  a  wind  of  prophecy 
Dilating  on  the  future;  "  everywhere 
Two  heads  in  council,  two  beside  the  hearth, 
Two  in  the  tangled  business  of  the  world, 
Two  in  the  liberal  offices  of  life, 
Two  plummets  dropt  for  one  to  sound  the  abyss 
Of  science,  and  the  secrets  of  the  mind: 
Musician,  painter,  sculptor,  critic,  more: 
And  everywhere  the  broad  and  bounteous  earth 
Should  bear  a  double  growth  of  those  rare  souls, 
Poets,  whose  thoughts  enrich  the  blood  of  the  world." 

She  ended  here,  and  beckon'd  us:  the  rest 
Parted;  and,  glowing  full-faced  welcome,  she 
Began  to  address  us,  and  was  moving  on 


In  gratulation,  till  as  when  a  boat 

Tacks,  and  the  slacken'd  sail  flaps,  all  her  voice 


22 


338  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 

Faltering  and  fluttering  in  her  throat,  she  cried, 

"  My  brother!  "  "  Well,  my  sister."     «  O, "  she  said, 

"  What  do  you  here?  and  in  this  dress?  and  these? 

Why  who  are  these?  a  wolf  within  the  fold! 

A  pack  of  wolves!  the  Lord  be  gracious  to  me! 

A  plot,  a  plot,  a  plot  to  ruin  all!  " 

"  No  plot,  no  plot,"  he  answer'd.     "  Wretched  boy, 

How  saw  you  not  the  inscription  on  the  gate, 

Let  no  man  enter  in  on  pain  of  death?  " 

"  And  if  I  had,"  he  answer'd,  "  who  could  think 

The  softer  Adams  of  your  Academe, 

0  sister,  Sirens  tho'  they  be,  were  such 

As  chanted  on  the  blanching  bones  of  men?" 

"  But  you  will  find  it  otherwise,"  she  said. 

"  You  jest:  ill  jesting  with  edge-tools!  my  vow 

Binds  me  to  speak,  and  O  that  iron  will, 

That  axelike  edge  unturnable,  our  Head, 

The  Princess."     "  Well  then,  Psyche,  take  my  life, 

And  nail  me  like  a  weasel  on  a  grange 

For  warning:  bury  me  beside  the  gate, 

And  cut  this  epitaph  above  my  bones; 

Here  lies  a  brother  by  a  sister  slain, 

All  for  the  co?nmon  good  of  womankind" 

"  Let  me  die  too,"  said  Cyril,  "  having  seen 

And  heard  the  Lady  Psyche." 

I  struck  in : 
"  Albeit  so  mask'd,  Madam,  I  love  the  truth; 
Receive  it;  and  in  me  behold  the  Prince 
Your  countryman,  affianc'd  years  ago 
To  the  Lady  Ida:  here,  for  here  she  was, 
And  thus  (what  other  way  was  left?)  I  came." 
"  O  Sir,  O  Prince,  I  have  no  country;  none; 
If  any,  this;  but  none.     Whate'er  1  was 
Disrooted,  what  I  am  is  grafted  here. 
Affianc'd,  Sir?  love-whispers  may  not  breathe 
Within  this  vestal  limit,  and  how  should  I, 
Who  am  not  mine,  say,  live :  the  thunderbolt 
Hangs  silent;  but  prepare:  I  speak;  it  falls." 
"  Yet  pause,"  I  said:  "for  that  inscription  there, 

1  think  no  more  of  deadly  lurks  therein, 
Than  in  a  clapper  clapping  in  a  garth, 

To  scare  the  fowl  from  fruit:  if  more  there  be, 
If  more  and  acted  on,  what  follows?  war; 
Your  own  work  marr'd:  for  this  your  Academe, 
Whichever  side  be  Victor,  in  the  halloo 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY.  339 

Will  topple  to  the  trumpet  down,  and  pass 
With  all  fair  theories  only  made  to  gild 

inless  summer."     "  Let  the  Princess  judge 
Of  that,"  she  said:  "farewell,  Sir — and  to  you. 
I  shudder  at  the  sequel,  but  I  go." 

"  Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,"  I  rejoin'd, 
"  The  fifth  in  line  from  that  old  Florian, 
Yrt   hangs  bis  portrait  in  my  father's  hall 
(The  gaunt  old  baron  with  his  beetle  brow 
Sun-shaded  in  the  heat  of  dusty  fights) 
A->  lie  bestrode  my  ( xrandsire,  when  he  fell, 
And  all  else  fled:   we  point  to  it,  and  we  say, 
The  loyal  warmth  of  Florian  is  not  cold, 
But  branches  current  yet  in  kindred  veins." 

"  Are  you  that  Psyche,"   Florian  added,  "  she 
With  whom  I  sang  about  the  morning  hills, 
Flung  ball,  flew  kite,  and  raced  the  purple  fly, 
And  snared  the  squirrel  of  the  glen?  are  you 
That  Psyche,  wont  to  bind  my  throbbing  brow, 
To  smooth  my  pillow,  mix  the  foaming  draught 
Of  fever,  tell  me  pleasant  tales,  and  read 
My  sickness  down  to  happy  dreams?  are  you 
That  brother-sister  Psyche,  both  in  one? 
You  were  that  Psyche,  but  what  are  you  now?  " 

»   "  You  are  that  Psyche,"  Cyril  said,  "  for  whom 
I  would  be  that  forever  which  I  seem, 
Woman,  if  I  might  sit  beside  your  feet, 
And  glean  your  scatter'd  sapience." 

Then  once  more, 
"  Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,"  I  began, 
"  That  on  her  bridal  morn  before  she  past 
From  all  her  old  companions,  when  the  king 
Kiss'd  her  pale  cheek,  declar'd  that  ancient  ties 
Would  still  be  dear  beyond  the  southern  hills; 
That  were  there  any  of  our  people  there 
In  want  or  peril,  there  was  one  to  hear 
And  help  them:  look!  for  such  are  these  and  I." 

"  Are  you  that  Psyche,"  Florian  ask'd,  "  to  whom, 
In  gentler  days,  your  arrow-wounded  fawn 


340 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLET. 


Came  flying  while  you  sat  beside  the  well? 

The  creature  laid  his  muzzle  on  your  lap, 

And  sobb'd,  and  you  sobb'd  with  it,  and  the  blood 

Was  sprinkled  on  your  kirtle,  and  you  wept. 

That  was  fawn's  blood,  not  brother's,  yet  you  wept. 

O  by  the  bright  head  of  my  little  niece, 

You  were  that  Psyche,  and  what  are  you  now  ?" 

"  You  are  that  Psyche,"  Cyril  said  again, 

"  The  mother  of  the  sweetest  little  maid, 

That  ever  crow'd  for  kisses." 

"Out  upon  it!" 
She  answer'd,  "peace!  and  why  should  I  not  play 
The  Spartan  Mother  with  emotion,  be 
The  Lucius  Junius  Brutus  of  my  kind? 
Him  you  call  great;  he  for  the  common  weal, 
The  fading  politics  of  mortal  Rome, 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET.  341 

As  I  might  slay  this  child,  if  good  need  were, 

Slew  both  his  sons;  and  I,  shall  I,  on  whom 

The  secular  emancipation  turns 

Of  half  this  world,  be  swerved  from  right  to  save 

A  prince,  a  brother?  a  little  will  I  yield. 

Best  so,  perchance,  for  us,  and  well  for  you. 

0  hard, when  love  and  duty  clash!  I  fear 

My  conscience  will  not  count  me  Reckless;  yet — 

1  lea r  my  conditions:  promise  (otherwise 
You  perish  )  as  you  came  to  slip  away, 
To-day,  to-morrow,  soon :   it  shall  he  said, 

These  women  were  too  barbarous,  would  not  learn; 
They  fled,  who  might  have  shamed  us:  promise,  all.''* 

What  could  we  else,  we  promised  each;  and  she, 
Like  some  wild  creature  newly  caged,  commene'd 
A  to-and-fro,  so  pacing  till  she  paus'd 
By  Florian:  holding  out  her  lily  arms 
Took  both  his  hands,  and  smiling  faintly  said, 
"  I  knew  you  at  the  first;  tho'  you  have  grown 
You  scarce  have  alter'd:   I  am  sad  and  glad 
To  see  thee,  Florian.     /  give  thee  to  death, 
My  brother!  it  was  duty  spoke,  not  I. 
My  needful  seeming  harshness,  pardon  it. 
Our  mother,  is  she  well?  " 

With  that  she  kiss'd 
His  forehead,  then,  a  moment  after,  clung 
About  him, and  betwixt  them  blossom'd  up 
From  out  a  common  vein  of  memory 
Sweet  household  talk,  and  phrases  of  the  hearth, 
And  far  allusion,  till  the  gracious  dews 
1  to  glisten  and  to  fall:   and  while 
They  stood,  so  rapt,  we  gazing,  came  a  voice, 
"  I  brought  a  message  here  from  Lady  Blanche." 

Back  started  she,  and  turning  round  we  saw 
The  Lady  Blanche's  daughter  where  she  stood, 

with  her  hand  upon  the  lock. 
A  rosy  blonde,  and  in  a  college  gown, 
That  clad  her  like  an  April  daffodilly 
(Her  mother's  color)  with  her  lips  apart, 
And  all  her  thoughts  as  fair  within  her  eyes, 
As  bottom  agates  seem  to  wave  and  float 
In  crystal  currents  of  clear  morning  seas. 


342  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLET. 


So  stood  that  same  fair  creature  at  the  door. 
Then  Lady  Psyche,  "Ah — Melissa — you! 
You  heard  us?"  and  Melissa,  uO  pardon  me! 
I  heard,  I  could  not  help  it,  did  not  wish: 
But  dearest  Lady,  pray  you  fear  me  not, 
Nor  think  I  bear  that  heart  within  my  breast, 
To  give  three  gallant  gentlemen  to  death." 
"  I  trust  you,"  said  the  other,  "for  we  two 
Were  always  friends,  none  closer,  elm  and  vine: 
But  yet  your  mother's  jealous  temperament — 
Let  not  your  prudence,  dearest,  drowse,  or  prove 
The  Danaid  of  a  leaky  vase,  for  fear 
This  whole  foundation  ruin,  and   I  lose 
My  honor,  these  their  lives."     "  Ah,  fear  me  not," 
Replied  Melissa;  "no — I  would  not  tell, 
No,  not  for  all  Aspasia's  cleverness, 
No,  not  to  answer,  Madam,  all  those  hard"  things 
That  Sheba  came  to  ask  of  Solomon." 
"  Be  it  so,"  the  other,  "  that  we  still  may  lead 
The  new  light  up,  and  culminate  in  peace, 
For  Solomon  may  come  to  Sheba  yet." 
Said  Cyril,  "  Madam,  he  the  wisest  man 
Feasted  the  woman  wisest  then,  in  halls 
Of  Lebanonian  cedar:  nor  should  you 
(Tho'  Madam  you  should  answer,  we  would  ask) 
Less  welcome  find  among  us,  if  you  came 
Among  us,  debtors  for  our  lives  to  you, 
Myself  for  something  more."     He  said  not  what, 
But  "  Thanks,"  she  answer'd,  "  go:  we  have  been  too  long 
Together:  keep  your  hoods  about  the  face; 
They  do  so  that  affect  abstraction  here. 
Speak  little;  mix  not  with  the  rest;  and  hold 
Your  promise:  all,  I  trust,  may  yet  be  well." 

We  turn'd  to  go,  but  Cyril  took  the  child, 
And  held  her  round  the  knees  against  his  waist, 
And  blew  the  swoll'n  cheek  of  a  trumpeter, 
While  Psyche  watch'd  them,  smiling,  and  the  child 
Push'd  her  flat  hand  against  his  face  and  laugh'd; 
And  thus  our  conference  clos'd. 

And  then  we  strolled 
For  half  the  day  thro'  stately  theatres 
Bench'd  crescent-wise.     In  each  we  sat,  we  heard 
The  grave  Professor.     On  the  lecture  slate 
The  circle  rounded  under  female  hands 


THE  PR  IXC  ESS:    A  MEDLE)'.  3-43 

With  flawless  demonstration;  followed  then 

A  classic  lecture,  rich  in  sentiment, 

With  scraps  of  thunderous  Epic  lilted  out 

By  violet-hooded  Doctors,  elegies 

And  quoted  odes,  and  jewels  five-words-long 

That  on  the  stretch'd  forefinger  of  all  Time 

Sparkle  forever:  then  we  dipt  in  all 

That  treats  of  whatsoever  is,  the  state, 

The  totiil  chronicles  of  man,  the  mind, 

The  morals,  something  of  the  frame,  the  rock, 

The  star,  the  bird,  the  fish,  the  shell,  the  flower, 

Electric,  chemic  laws,  and  all  the  rest, 

And  whatsoever  can  be  taught  and  known; 

Till  like  three  horses  that  have  broken  fence, 

And  glutted  all  night  long  breast-deep  in  corn, 

We  issued  gorged  with  knowledge,  and  I  spoke: 

"  Why  sirs,  they  do  all  this  as  well  as  we." 

"They  hunt  old  trails,"  said  Cyril,"  very  well; 

But  when  did  woman  ever  yet  invent?" 

"  Ungracious!"  answer'd  Florian,  "  have  you  learnt 

No  more  from  Psyche's  lecture,  you  that  talk'd 

The  trash  that  made  me  sick,  and  almost  sad?" 

"O  trash,"  he  said,  "but  with  a  kernel  in  it. 

Should  I  not  call  her  wise,  who  made  me  wise? 

And  learnt?     I  learnt  more  from  her  in  a  flash, 

Than  if  my  brainpan  were  an  empty  hull, 

And  every  Muse  tumbled  a  science  in. 

A  thousand  hearts  lie  fallow  in  these  halls, 

And  round  these  halls  a  thousand  baby  loves 

Fly  twanging  headless  arrows  .it  the  heart*, 

Whence  follows  many  a  vacant  pang;  hut  O 

With  me,  Sir,  enter'd  in  the  bigger  boy, 

The  Head  of  all  the  golden-shafted  firm, 

The  long  limb'd  lad  that  had  a  Psyche  too; 

He  cleft  me  through  the  stomacher:  and  now 

What  think  you  of  it,  Florian?     Do  I  chase 

The  substance  or  the  shadow?  will  it  hold? 

I  have  no  sorcerer's  malison  on  me, 

No  ghostly  hauntings  like  his  Highness.     I 

Flatter  myself  that  always  everywhere 

I  know  the  substance  when  I  see  it.     Well, 

Are  castles  shadows?     Three  of  them?     Is  she 

The  sweet  proprietress  a  shadow?     If  not, 

Shall  those  three  castles  patch  my  tatter'd  coat? 

For  dear  are  those  three  castles  to  my  wants, 


844  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 

And  dear  is  sister  Psyche  to  my  heart, 
And  two  dear  things  are  one  of  double  worth. 
And  much  I  might  have  said,  but  that  my  zone 
Unmann'd  me:  then  the  Doctors!     O  to  hear 
The  Doctors!  O  to  watch  the  thirsty  plants 
Imbibing!  once  or.twice  I  thought  to  roar, 
To  break  my  chain,  to  shake  my  mane:  but  thou, 
Modulate  me,  Soul  of  mincing  mimicry! 
Make  liquid  treble  of  that  bassoon,  my  throat 
Abase  those  eyes  that  ever  loved  to  meet 
Star-sisters  answering  under  crescent  brows; 
Abate  the  stride,  which  speaks  of  man,  and  loose 
A  flying  charm  of  blushes  o'er  this  cheek, 
Where  they  like  swallows  coming  out  of  time 
Will  wonder  why  they  came;  but  hark  the  bell 
For  dinner,  let  us  go!  " 

And  in  we  stream'd 
Among  the  columns,  pacing  staid  and  still 
By  twos  and  threes,  till  all  from  end  to  end 
With  beauties  every  shade  of  brown  and  fair, 
In  colors  gayer  than  the  morning  mist, 
The  long  hall  glitter'd  like  a  bed  of  flowers. 
How  might  a  man  not  wander  from  his  wits 
Pierc'd  thro'  with  eyes,  but  that  I  kept  mine  own 
Intent  on  her,  who  rapt  in  glorious  dreams, 
The  second-sight  of  some  Astrsean  age, 
Sat  compass'd  with  professors;  they,  the  while, 
Discuss'd  a  doubt  and  tost  it  to  and  fro : 
A  clamor  thicken'd,  mixt  with  inmost  terms 
Of  art  and  science:  Lady  Blanche  alone 
Of  faded  form  and  haughtiest  lineaments, 
With  all  her  autumn  tresses  falsely  brown, 
Shot  sidelong  daggers  at  us,  a  tiger-cat 
In  act  to  spring. 

At  last  a  solemn  grace 
Concluded,  and  we  sought  the  gardens:  there 
One  walk'd  reciting  by  herself,  and  one 
In  this  hand  held  a  volume  as  to  read, 
And  smooth'd  a  peacock  down  with  that: 
Some  to  a  low  song  oar'd  a  shallop  by, 
Or  under  arches  of  the  marble  bridge 
Hung,  shadow'd  from  the  heat:  some  hid  and  sought 
In  the  orange  thickets:  others  tost  a  ball 
Above  the  fountain-jets,  and  back  again 
With  laughter;  others  lay  about  the  lawns. 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY.  345 

Of  the  older  sort,  and  murmurM  that  their  May 

Was  passing:  what  was  learning  unto  them? 

They  wish'd  to  marry;  they  could  rule  a  house; 

Men  hated  learned  women:  but  we  three 

Sat  muffled  like  the  Fates;  and  often  came 

Melissa  hitting  all  we  saw  with  shafts 

Of  gentle  satire,  kin  to  charity, 

That  harm'd  not:  then  day  droopt;  the  chapel  bells 

Call'd  us:  we  left  the  walks;  we  mixt  with  those 

Six  hundred  maidens  clad  in  purest  white, 

Before  two  streams  of  light  from  wall  to  wall, 

While  the  great  organ  almost  burst  his  pipes, 

Groaning  for  power,  and  rolling  thro'  the  court 

A  long  melodious  thunder  to  the  sound 

Of  solemn  psalms,  and  silver  litanies, 

The  work  of  Ida,  to  call  down  from  Heaven 

A  blessing  on  her  labors  for  the  world. 


Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon: 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 


III. 


Morn  in  the  white  wake  of  the  morning  star 
Came  furrowing  all  the  orient  into  gold. 
We  rose,  and  each  by  other  drest  with  care 
Descended  to  the  court  that  lay  three  parts 
In  shadow,  but  the  Muses'  heads  were  touch'd 
Above  the  darkness  from  their  native  East. 


346  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 

There  while  we  stood  beside  the  fount  and  watch'd 
Or  seem'd  to  watch  the  dancing  bubble,  approach'd 
Melissa,  tinged  with  wan  from  lack  of  sleep, 
Or  grief,  and  glowing  round  her  dewy  eyes 
The  circled  Iris  of  a  night  of  tears; 
"  And  fly,"  she  cried,  «'  O  fly,  while  yet  you  may ! 
My  mother  knows:  "  and  when  I  ask'd  her  how, 
"  My  fault,"  she  wept,  "  my  fault!  and  yet  not  mine; 
Yet  mine  in  part.     O  hear  me,  pardon  me. 
My  mother,  'tis  her  wont  from  night  to  night 
To  rail  at  Lady  Psyche  and  her  side. 
She  says  the  Princess  should  have  been  the  Head, 
Herself  and  Lady  Psyche  the  two  arms; 
And  so  it  was  agreed  when  first  they  came; 
But  Lady  Psyche  was  the  right  hand  now, 
And  she  the  left,  or  not,  or  seldom  used ; 
Hers  more  than  half  the  students,  all  the  love, 
And  so  last  night  she  fell  to  canvass  you : 

"  Her  countrywomen!  she  did  not  envy  her. 
Who  ever  saw  such  wild  barbarians? 
Girls? — more  like  men!  "  and  at  these  words  the  snake, 
My  secret,  seem'd  to  stir  within  my  breast; 
And  O,  Sirs,  could  I  help  it,  but  my  cheek 
Began  to  burn  and  burn,  and  her  lynx  eye 
To  fix  and  make  me  hotter,  till  she  laugh'd: 
"  O  marvellously  modest  maiden,  you ! 
Men!  girls,  like  men!  why,  if  they  had  been  men 
You  need  not  set  your  thoughts  in  rubric  thus 
For  wholesome  comment."     Pardon,  I  am  shamed 
That  I  must  needs  repeat  for  rri}'  excuse 
What  looks  so  little  graceful;  "  men"  (for  still 
My  mother  went  revolving  on  the  word) 
"  And  so  they  are, — very  like  men  indeed — 
And  with  that  woman  closeted  for  hours ! " 
Then  came  these  dreadful  words  out  one  by  one, 
"  Why — these — are — men:  "  I  shudder'd:  "  and  you  know  it." 
"  O  ask  me  nothing,"  I  said :  "  And  she  knows  too, 
And  she  conceals  it."     So  my  mother  clutch'd 
The  truth  at  once,  but  with  no  word  from  me; 
And  now  thus  early  risen  she  goes  to  inform 
The  Princess:  Lady  Psyche  will  be  crush'd; 
But  you  may  yet  be  saved,  and  therefore  fly: 
But  heal  me  with  your  pardon  ere  you  go." 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY.  347 

-  What  pardon,  sweet  Melissa,  for  a  blush?" 
Said  Cyril :  "  Pale  one,  blush  again  :  than  wear 
Those  lilies,  better  blush  our  lives  away. 
Yet  let  us  breathe  for  one  hour  more  in  Heaven." 
IK-  added,  "lest  some  classic  Angel  speak 
In  scorn  of  us,  t  They  mounted,  ( Jan\  inedes, 
To  turn  1  >le,  Yulcans,  on  the  second  morn.' 
But  I  will  melt  this  marble  into  wax 
To  yield  us  farther  furlough:  "  and  he  went. 

Melissa  shook  her  doubtful  curls,  and  thought 
He  scarce  would  prosper.     "Tell  us,"  Florian  ask'd, 
"  How  grew  this  feud  betwixt  the  right  and  left." 
"  O  long  ago,"  she  said,  "  betwixt  these  two 
Division  smoulders  hidden:  'tis  my  mother, 
Too  jealous,  often  fretful  as  the  wind 
Pent  in  a  crevice:  much  I  bear  with  her: 
I  never  knew  my  father,  but  she  says 
(God  help  her)  she  was  wedded  to  a  fool; 
And  still  she  rail'd  against  the  state  of  things. 
She  had  the  care  of  Lady  Ida's  youth, 
And  from  the  Queen's  decease  she  brought  her  up. 
But  when  your  sister  came  she  won  the  heart 
Of  Ida:  they  were  still  together,  grew 
(For  so  they  said  themselves)  inosculated; 
Consonant  chords  that  shiver  to  one  note; 
One  mind  in  all  things:  yet  my  mother  still 
Affirms  your  Psyche  thieved  her  theories, 
And  angled  with  them  for  her  pupil's  love: 
She  calls  her  plagiarist;  I  know  not  what: 
But  I  must  go:    I  dare  not  tarry,"  and  light, 
As  flies  the  shadow  of  a  bird,  she  fled. 

Then  murmur'd  Florian,  gazing  after  her: 
"  An  open-hearted  maiden,  true  and  pure. 
If  I  could  love,  why  this  were  she:  how  pretty 
Her  blushing  was,  and  how  she  blush'd  again, 
As  if  to  close  with  Cyril's  random  wish: 
Not  like  your  Princess  cramm'd  with  erring  pride, 
Nor  like  poor  Psyche  whom  she  drags  in  tow." 

"  The  crane,"  I  said,  "  may  chatter  of  the  crane, 
The  dove  may  murmur  of  the  dove,  but  I 
An  eagle  clang  an  eagle  to  the  sphere. 


34£  THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 

My  princess,  O  my  princess!  true  she  errs, 

But  in  her  own  grand  way;  being  herself 

Three  times  more  noble  than  three  score  of  men, 

She  sees  herself  in  every  woman  else, 

And  so  she  wears  her  error  like  a  crown 

To  blind  the  truth  and  me:  for  her,  and  her, 

Hebes  are  they  to  hand  ambrosia,  mix 

The  nectar;  but — ah  she — whene'er  she  moves 

The  Samian  Here  rises  and  she  speaks 

A  Memnon  smitten  with  the  morning  sun." 

So  saying,  from  the  court  we  paced,  and  gain'd 
The  terrace  rang'd  along  the  Northern  front, 
And  leaning  there  on  those  balusters,  high 
Above  the  empurpled  champaign,  drank  the  gale 
That  blown  about  the  foliage  underneath, 
And  sated  with  the  innumerable  rose, 
Beat  balm  upon  our  eyelids. 

Hither  came 
Cyril,  and  yawning  "O  hard  task,"  he  cried: 
"  No  fighting  shadows  here!  I  forced  a  way 
Thro'  solid  opposition  crabb'd  and  gnarl'd. 
Better  to  clear  prime  forests,  heave  and  thump 
A  league  of  street  in  summer  solstice  down, 
Than  hammer  at  this  reverend  gentlewoman. 
I  knock'd  and,  bidden,  enter'd;  found  her  there 
At  point  to  move,  and  settled  in  her  eyes 
The  green  malignant  light  of  coming  storm. 
Sir,  I  was  courteous,  every  phrase  well-oil'd, 
As  man's  could  be:  yet  maiden-meek  I  pray'd 
Concealment:  she  demanded  who  we  were, 
And  why  we  came?     I  fabled  nothing  fair, 
But,  your  example  pilot,  told  her  all. 
Up  went  the  hush'd  amaze  of  hand  and  eye. 
But  when  I  dwelt  upon  your  old  affiance, 
She  answer'd  sharply  that  I  talk'd  astray. 
I  urg'd  the  fierce  inscription  on  the  gate, 
And  our  three  lives.     True — we  had  limed  ourselves, 
With  open  eyes,  and  we  must  take  the  chance. 
But  such  extremes,  I  told  her,  well  might  harm 
The  woman's  cause.     «  Not  more  than  now,'  she  said, 
4  So  puddled  as  it  is  with  favoritism.' 
I  tried  the  mother's  heart.     Shame  might  befall 
Melissa,  knowing,  saying  not  she  knew : 
Her  answer  was    *  Leave  me  to  deal  with  that.' 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY.  349 

I  spoke  of  war  to  come  and  many  deaths, 

And  she  replied,  her  duty  was  to  speak, 

And  duty  duty,  clear  of  consequences. 

I  grew  discouraged,  Sir,  but  since  I  knew 

No  rock  so  hard  but  that  a  little  wave 

May  beat  admission  in  a  thousand  years, 

I  recommenced :  l  Decide  not  ere  you  pause 

I  find  you  here  but  in  the  second  place, 

Some  say  the  third — the  authentic  foundress  you. 

I  pffer  boldly;  we  will  seat  you  highest: 

Wink  at  our  advent:  help  my  prince  to  gain 

His  rightful  bride,  and  here  I  promise  you 

Some  palace  in  our  land,  where  you  shall  reign 

The  head  and  heart  of  all  our  fair  she-world, 

And  your  great  name  flow  on  with  broadening  time 

Forever.'     Well,  she  balanced  this  a  little, 

And  told  me  she  would  answer  us  to-day, 

Meantime  be  mute:  thus  much,  nor  more  I  gain'd." 

He  ceasing,  came  a  message  from  the  Head. 
"  That  afternoon  the  Princess  rode  to  take 
The  dip  of  certain  strata  to  the  North. 
Would  we  go  with  her?  we  should  find  the  land 
Worth  seeing;  and  the  river  made  a  fall 
Out  yonder;"  then  she  pointed  on   to  where 
A  double  hill  ran  up  his  furrowy  forks 
Beyond  the  thick-leav'd  platans  of  the  vale. 

Agreed  to  this,  the  day  fled  on  thro'  all  • 
Its  range  of  duties  to  the  appointed  hour. 
Then  summon'd  to  the  porch  we  went.     She  stood 
Among  her  maidens,  higher  by  the  head, 
Her  back  against  a  pillar,  her  foot  on  one 
Of  those  tame  leopards.     Kitttenlike  he  roll'd 
And  paw'd  about  her  sandal.     I  drew  near: 
I  gazed.     On  a  sudden  my  strange  seizure  came 
Upon  me,  the  weird  vision  of  our  house: 
The  Princess  Ida  seem'd  a  hollow  show, 
Her  gay-furr'd  cats  a  painted  fantasy, 
Her  college  and  her  maidens  empty  masks, 
And  I  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream, 
For  all  things  were  and  were  not.     Yet  I  felt 
My  heart  beat  thick  with  passion  and  with  awe; 
Then  from  my  breast  the  involuntary  sigh 


350  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY. 


Brake,  as  she  smote  me  with  the  light  of  eyes 
That  lent  my  knee  desire  to  kneel,  and  shook 
My  pulses,  till  to  horse  we  got,  and  so 
Went  forth  in  long  retinue  following  up 
The  river  as  it  narrow'd  to  the  hills. 

I  rode  beside  her  and  to  me  she  said : 
"  O  friend,  we  trust  that  you  esteem'd  us  not 
Too  harsh  to  your  companion  yestermorn ; 
Unwillingly  we  spake."     "  No — not  to  her," 
I  answer'd,  "  but   to  one  of  whom  we  spake 
Your  Highness  might  have  seem'd  the  thing  you  say." 
"  Again  ?  "  she  cried,  "  are  you  ambassadresses 
From  him  to  me?  we  give  you,  being  strange, 
A  license:  speak,  and  let  the  topic  die." 

I  stammer'd  that  I  knew  him — could  have  wish'd — 
"  Our  king  expects — was  there  no  precontract? 
There  is  no  truer-hearted — ah,  you  seem 
All  he  prefigur'd,  and  he  could  not  see 
The  bird  of  passage  flying  south  but  long'd 
To  follow :  surely,  if  your  Highness  keep 
Your  purport,  you  will  shock  him  ev'n  to  death, 
Or  baser  courses,  children  of  despair." 

"  Poor  boy,"  she  said,  "  can  he  not  read — no  books? 
Quoit,  tennis,  ball — no  games?  nor  deals  in  that 
Which  men  delight  in,  martial  exercise? 
To  nurse  a  blind  ideal  like  a  girl, 
Methinks  he  seems  no  better  than  a  girl; 
As  girls  were  once,  as  we  ourself  have  been : 
We  had  our  dreams;  perhaps  he  mixt  with  them : 
We  touch  on  our  dead  self,  nor  shun  to  do  it, 
Being  other — since  we  learnt  our  meaning  here, 
To  lift  the  woman's  fall'n  divinity, 
Upon  an  even  pedestal  with  man." 

She  paus'd,  and  added  with  a  haughtier  smile: 
"  And  as  to  precontracts,  we  move,  my  friend, 
At  no  man's  beck,  but  know  ourself  and  thee, 
O  Vashti,  noble  Vashti!     Summon'd  out 
She  kept  her  state,  and  left  the  drunken  king 
To  brawl  at  Shushan  underneath  the  palms." 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY.  351 


"  Alas  your  Highness  breathes  full  East,"  I  said, 
"  On  that  which  leans  to  you.     I  know  the  Prince, 
I  prize  his  truth :  and  then  how  vast  a  work 
To  assail  this  gray  pre-eminence  of  man! 
You  grant  me  license;  might  I  use  it?  think, 
Ere  half  be  done  perchance  your  life  may  fail: 
Then  comes  the  feebler  heiress  of  your  plan, 
And  takes  and  ruins  all;  and  thus  your  pains 
May  only  make  that  footprint  upon  sand 
Which  old  recurring  waves  of  prejudice 
Resmooth  to  nothing:  might  I  dread  that  you, 
With  only  Fame  for  spouse  and  your  great  deeds 
For  issue,  yet  may  live  in  vain,  and  miss, 
Meanwhile,  what  every  woman  counts  her  due, 
Love,  children,  happiness .'" 

And  she  exclaim'd, 
"  Peace,  you  young  savage  of  the  Northern  wild ! 
What!  tho'  your  Prince's  love  were  like  a  God's, 
Have  we  not  made  ourself  the  sacrifice? 
You  are  bold  indeed:  we  are  not  talk'd  to  thus: 
Yet  will  we  say  for  children,  would  they  grew 
Like  field-flowers  everywhere!  we  like  them  well: 
But  children  die;  and  let  me  tell  you,  girl, 
Howe'er  you  babble,  great  deeds  cannot  die; 
They  with  the  sun  and  moon  renew  their  light 
Forever,  blessing  those  that  look  on  them. 
Children — that  men  may  pluck  them  from  our  hearts, 
Kill  us  with  pity,  break  us  with  ourselves — 
O — children — there  is  nothing  upon  earth 
More  miserable  than  she  that  has  a  son 
And  sees  him  err:  nor  would  we  work  for  fame; 
Tho'  she  perhaps  might  reap  the  applause  of  Great, 
Who  learns  the  one  pou  sto  whence  after-hands 
May  move  the  world,  tho'  she  herself  effect 
But  little:  wherefore  up  and  act,  nor  shrink 
For  fear  our  solid  aim  be  dissipated 
By  frail  successors.     Would,  indeed,  we  had  been, 
In  lieu  of  many  mortal  flies,  a  race 
Of  giants  living,  each,  a  thousand  years, 
That  we  might  see  our  own  work  out,  and  watch 
The  sandy  footprint  harden  into  stone." 

I  answer'd  nothing,  doubtful  in  myself 
Jf  that  strange  Poet-princess  with  her  grand 


352  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY. 

Imaginations  might  at  all  be  won. 

And  she  broke  out  interpreting  my  thoughts: 

"  No  doubt  we  seem  a  kind  of  monster  to  you; 
We  are  used  to  that:  for  women,  up  till  this 
Cramp'd  under  worse  than  South-sea-isle  taboo, 
Dwarfs  of  the  gynaeceum,  fail  so  far 
In  high  desire,  they  know  not,  cannot  guess 
How  much  their  welfare  is  a  passion  to  us 
If  we  could  give  them  surer,  quicker  proof — 
O  if  our  end  were  less  achievable 
By  slow  approaches,  than  by  single  act 
Of  immolation,  any  phase  of  death, 
We  were  as  prompt  to  spring  against  the  pikes, 
Or  down  the  fiery  gulf  as  talk  of  it, 
To  compass  our  dear  sisters'  liberties." 

She  bow'd  as  if  to  veil  a  noble  tear; 
And  up  we  came  to  where  the  river  sloped 
To  plunge  in  cataract,  shattering  on  black  blocks 
A  breath  of  thunder.     O'er  it  shook  the  woods, 
And  danc'd  the  color,  and,  below,  stuck  out 
The  bones  of  some  vast  bulk  that  lived  and  roar'd 
Before  man  was.     She  gazed  awhile  and  said, 
"  As  these  rude  bones  to  us,  are  we  to  her 
That  will  be."     "  Dare  we  dream  of  that,"  I  ask'd, 
"  Which  wrought  us,  as  the  workman  and  his  work, 
That  practice  betters?  "     "  How,"  she  cried,  "  you  love 
The  metaphysics!  read  and  earn  our  prize, 
A  golden  broach:  beneath  an  emerald  plane 
Sits  Diotima,  teaching  him  that  died 
Of  hemlock;  our  device;  wrought  to  the  life; 
She  rapt  upon  her  subject,  he  on  her: 
For  there  are  schools  for  all."     "  And  yet,"  I  said, 
"  Methinks  I  have  not  found  among  them  all 
One  anatomic."     "  Nay,  we  thought  of  that," 
She  answer'd,  "but  it  pleased  us  not:  in  truth 
We  shudder  but  to  dream  our  maids  should  ape 
Those  monstrous  males  that  carve  the  living  houau, 
And  cram  him  with  the  fragments  of  the  grave, 
Or  in  the  dark  dissolving  human  heart, 
And  holy  secrets  of  this  microcosm, 
Dabbling  a  shameless  hand  with  shameful  jest, 
Encarnalize  their  spirits:  yet  we  know 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET.  858 

Knowledge  is  knowledge,  and  this  matter  hangs: 

Howbeit  ourself,  foreseeing  casualty, 

Nor  willing  men  should  come  among  us,  learnt, 

For  many  weary  moons  before  we  came, 

This  craft  of  healing.     Were  you  sick,  ourself 

Would  tend  upon  you.     To  your  question  now, 

Which  touches  on  the  workman  and  his  work. 

Let  there  be  light  and  there  was  light:  'tis  so: 

For  was,  and  is,  and  will  be,  are  but  is; 

And  all  creation  is  one  act  at  once, 

The  birth  of  light:  but  we  that  are  not  all, 

As  parts,  can  see  but  parts,  now  this,  now  that, 

And  live,  perforce,  from  thought  to  thought,  and  make 

One  act  a  phantom  of  succession:  thus 

Our  weakness  somehow  shapes  the  shadow,  Time; 

But  in  the  shadow  we  will  work,  and   mould 

The  woman  to  the  fuller  day." 

She  spake 
With  kindled  eyes;  we  rode  a  league  beyond, 
And,  o'er  a  bridge  of  pinewood  crossing,  came 
On  flowery  levels  underneath  the  crag, 
Full  of  all  beauty.     "  O  how  sweet,"  I  said, 
(For  I  was  half-oblivious  of  my   mask,) 
"  To  linger  here  with  one  that  loved  us."     "  Yea," 
She  answer'd, "or  with  fair  philosophies 
That  lift  the  fancy;  for  indeed  these  fields 
Are  lovely,  lovelier  not  the  Elysian  lawns, 
Where  paced  the  Demigods  of  old,  and  saw 
The  soft  white  vapor  streak  the  crowned  towers 
Built  to  the  Sun :"  then,  turning  to  her  maids, 
"  Pitch  our  pavilion  here  upon  the  sward ; 
Lay  out  the  viands."     At  the  word,  they  rais'd 
A  tent  of  satin,  elaborately  wrought 
With  fair  Corinna's  triumph;  here  she  stood, 
Engirt  with  many  a  florid  maiden-cheek, 
The  woman-conqueror:  woman  Conquer'd  there 
The  bearded  Victor  of  ten-thousand  hymns, 
And  all  the  men  mourned  at  his  side:  but  we 
Set  forth  to  climb;  then,  climbing,  Cyril  kept 
With  Psyche,  with  Melissa  Florian,  I 
With  mine  affianc'd.     Many  a  little  hand 
Glanc'd  like  a  touch  of  sunshine  on  the  rocks, 
Many  a  light  foot  shone  like  a  jewel  set 
In  the  dark  crag:  and  then  we  turn'd,  we  wound 
About  the  cliffs,  the  copses,  out  and  in, 


354 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 


Hammering  and  clinking,  chattering  stony  names 
Of  shale  and  hornblende,  rag  and  trap  and  tuff. 
Amygdaloid  and  trachyte,  till  the  sun 
Grew  broader  toward  his  death  and  fell,  and  all 
The  rosy  heights  came  out  above  the  lawns. 


^-a^ 


The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


O  hark,  O  hear!  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying; 
Blow,  bugle;  answer?  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


THE  PRENCRSS:    A  MBDL.Wk 


355 


()  love,  they  die  In  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  hugle,  blow,  >ct  the  wild  echoea  flying, 
And  answer,  echof,  Answer,  dying  dying,  dying# 


IV. 


"  There  sinks  the  nebulous  star  we  call  the  sun, 
If  that  hypothesis  of  theirs  be  sound," 
Said  Ida;  "let  us  down  and  rest:"  and  we 
Down  from  the  lean  and  wrinkled  precipices, 
By  every  coppice-feather'd    chasm  and  cleft, 
Dropt  thro'  the  ambrosial  gloom  to  where  below 

No  bigger  than  a  glow-worm  shone  the  tent 
Lamp-lit  from  the  inner.     Once  she  lean'd  on  me, 
Descending:  once  or  twice  she  lent  her  hand, 
And  blissful  palpitations  in  the  blood, 
Stirring  a  sudden  transport  rose  and  fell. 


But  when  we  planted  level  feet,  and  dipt 
Beneath  the  satin  dome  and  enter'd  in, 
There  leaning  deep  in  brnidcrM  down  we  sank 
Our  elbows:  on  a  tripod  in  the  midst 
A  fragrant  flame  rose,  and  before  us  glow'd 
Fruit,  blossom,  viand,  amber  wine,  and  gold. 


356  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 

Then  she,  "Let  some  one  sing  to  us:  lightlier  move 
The  minutes  fledg'd  with  music:"  and  a  maid, 
Of  those  beside  her,  smote  her  harp,  and  sang : 


"  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

\ 
"  Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under  world, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"  Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowlyvgrows  a  glimmering  square; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"  Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others:  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more." 


She  ended  with  such  passion  that  the  tear, 
She  sang  of,  shook  and  fell,  an  erring  pearl 
Lost  in  her  bosom :  but  with  some  disdain 
Answer'd  the  Princess:  "If  indeed  there  haunt 
About  the  moulder'd  lodges  of  the  Past 
So  sweet  a  voice  and  vague,  fatal  to  men, 
Well  needs  it  we  should  cram  our  ears  with  wool 
And  so  pace  by :  but  thine  are  fancies  hatch'd 
In  silken-folded  idleness;  nor  is  it 
Wiser  to  weep  a  true  occasion  lost, 
But  trim  our  sails,  and  let  old  bygones  be, 
While  down  the  streams  that  float  us  each  and  aL 
To  the  issue,  goes,  like  glittering  bergs  of  ice, 
Throne  after  throne,  and  molten  on  the  waste 
Becomes  a  cloud:  for  all  things  serve  their  time 
Toward  that  great  year  of  equal  mights  and  rights, 
Nor  would  I  fight  with  iron  laws,  in  the  end 
Found  golden:  let  the  past  be  past;  let  be 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY.  357 

Their  cancel  1M  Babels:  tho'  the  rough  kex  break 
The  starr'd  mosaic,  and  the  wild  goat  hang 
Upon  the  shaft,  and  the  wild  fig-tree  split 
Their  monstrous  idols,  care  not  while  we  hear 
A  trumpet  in  the  distance  pealing  news 

Of  better,  and   Hope,  a  poising  eagle,  burns 

\e  the  nnrisen  morrow:"  then  to  me, 
u  Know  yon  no  song  of  your  own  land?"  she  said, 
"Not  such  as  moans  about  the  retrospect, 

Bui  deals  with  the  other  distance  and  the  hues 
Of  promise;   not  a  death's-head  at  tlu-  wine." 


Then  I  remember'd  one  myself  had  made, 
What  time  I  watch'd  tlu-  swallow  winging  south 

Prom  mint-  own  land,  part  made  long  since,  and  part 
Now  while  I  Bang,  and  maidenlike  as  far 
As  1  could  ape  their  treble,  did  I  sing. 


"  0  Swallow,  Swallow,  flying,  flying  South, 
Fly  to  her,  and  fall  upon  her  gilded  eaves, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her  what  I  tell  to  thee. 


"O  tell  her,  Swallow,  thou  that  knowest  each, 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the  South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the  North. 


"  O  Swallow,  Swallow,  if  I  could  follow  and  light 
Upon  her  lattice,  I  would  pipe  and  trill, 
And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million  lo\ 

"O  were  I  thou  that  the  might  take  me  in, 
And  lav  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till   I  died. 


41  Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart  with  love, 
Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself,  when  all  the  woods  are  green? 


4<  O  tell  her,  Swallow,  that  thy  brood  is  flown 
Say  to  her,  I  do  but  wanton  in  the  South 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is  made. 


"O  tell  her,  brief  is  life,  but  love  is  long, 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the  North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the  South. 


358  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY. 


"  O  Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden  woods, 
Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  woo  her,  and  make  her  mine, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  that  I  follow  thee." 


I  ceased,  and  all  the  ladies,  each  at  each, 
Like  the  Ithacensian  suitors  in  old  time 
Stared  with  great  eyes,  and  laugh'd  with  alien  lips, 
And  knew  not  what  they  meant;  for  still  my  voice 
Rang  false:  but  smiling,  "Not  for  thee,"  she  said, 
"  O  Bulbul,  any  rose  of  Gulistan 
Shall  burst  her  veil :  marsh-divers,  rather,  maid, 
Shall  croak  thee  sister,  or  the  meadow-crake 
Grate  her  harsh  kindred  in  the  grass:  and  this 
A  mere  love-poem !     O  for  such,  my  friend, 
We  hold  them  slight:  they  mind  us  of  the  time 
When  we  made  bricks  in  Egypt.     Knaves  are  men. 
That  lute  and  flute  fantastic  tenderness, 
And  dress  the  victim  to  the  offering  up, 
And  paint  the  gates  of  Hell  with  Paradise, 
And  play  the  slave  to  gain  the  tyranny. 
Poor  soul !  I  had  a  maid  of  honor  once ; 
She  wept  her  true  eyes  blind  for  such  a  one, 
A  rogue  of  canzonets  and  serenades. 
I  loved  her.     Peace  be  with  her.     She  is  dead. 
So  they  blaspheme  the  Muse!  but  great  is  song 
Used  to  great  ends:  ourself  have  often  tried 
Valkyrian  hymns,  or  into  rhythm  have  dash'd 
The  passion  of  the  prophetess;  for  song 
Is  duer  unto  freedom,  force  and  growth 
Of  spirit,  than  to  junketing  and  love. 
Love  is  it?     Would  this  same  mock-love,  and  this 
Mock-Hymen  were  laid  up  like  winter  bats, 
Till  all  men  grew  to  rate  us  at  our  worth, 
Not  vassals  to  be  beat,  nor  pretty  babes 
To  be  dandled,  no,  but  living  wills,  and  sphered 
Whole  in  ourselves  and  owed  to  none.     Enough! 
But  now  to  leaven  play  with  profit,  you, 
Know  you  no  song,  the  true  growth  of  your  soil, 
That  gives  the  manners  of  your  countrywomen  ?  M 

She  spoke  and  turn'd  her  sumptuous  head  with  eyes 
Of  shining  expectation  fixt  on  mine. 
Then  while  I  dragg'd  my  brains  for  such  a  song, 
Cyril,  with  whom  the  bell-mouth'd  flask  had  wrought, 
Or  master'd  by  the  sense  of  sport,  began 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY.  359 

To  troll  a  careless,  careless  tavern-catch 

Of  Moll  and  Meg,  and  strange  experiences 

Unmeet  for  ladies.     Florian  nodded  at  him, 

I  frowning;  Psyche  flush'd  and  wann'd  and  shook; 

The  lilylike  Melissa  droop'd  her  brows; 

"  Forbear,"  the  Princess  cried;  "  Forbear,  Sir,"  I; 

And  heated  thro'  and  thro'  with  wrath  and  love, 

I  smote  him  on  the  breast;  he  started  up; 

There  rose  a  shriek  as  of  a  city  sack'd; 

Melissa  clamorM,  "  Flee  the  death;"   "  To  horse," 

Said  Ida;  "  home!  to  horse!  "  and  fled,  as  flies 

A  troop  of  snowy  doves  athwart  the  dusk, 

When  some  one  batters  at  the  dovecote-doors, 

Disorderly  the  women. 

Alone  I  stood 
With  Florian,  cursing  Cyril,  vex'd  at  heart, 
In  the  pavilion :  there  like  parting  hopes 
I  heard  them  passing  from  me:  hoof  by  hoof, 
And  every  hoof  a  knell  to  my  desires, 
Clang'd  on  the  bridge;  and  then  another  shriek, 
"The  Head,  the  Head,  the  Princess,  O  the  Head! " 
For  blind  with  rage  she  miss'd  the  plank,  and  roll'd 
In  the  river.     Out  I  sprang  from  glow  to  gloom ; 
There  whirl'd  her  white  robe  like  a  blossom'd  brand 
Rapt  to  the  horrible  fall ;  a  glance  I  gave, 
No  more,  but  woman-vested  as  I  was 
Plung'd;  and  the  flood  drew;  yet  I  caught  her;  then 
Oaring  one  arm,  and  bearing  in  my  left 
The  weight  of  all  the  hopes  of  half  the  world 
Strove  to  buffet  to  land  in  vain.     A  tree 
Was  half-disrooted  from  his  place  and  stoop'd 
To  drench  his  dark  locks  in  the  gurgling  wave 
Mid-channel.     Right  on  this  we  drove  and  caught, 
And  grasping  'down  the  boughs  I  gained  the  shore. 

There  stood  her  maidens  glimmeringly  group'd 
In  the  hollow  bank.     One  reaching  forward  drew 
My  burthen  from  mine  arms;  they  cried,  "  She  lives!" 
They  bore  her  back  into  the  tent;  but  I, 
So  much  a  kind  of  shame  within  me  wrought, 
Not  yet  endur'd  to  meet  her  opening  eyes, 
Nor  found  my  friends;  but  pushed  alone  on  foot 
(For  since  her  horse  was  lost  I  left  her  mine) 
Across  the  woods,  and  less  from  Indian  craft 


360  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 

Than  beelike  instinct  hiveward,  found  at  length 
The  garden  portals.     Two  great  statues,  Art 
And  Science,  Caryatids,  lifted  up 
A  weight  of  emblem,  and  betwixt  were  valves 
Of  open-work  in  which  the  hunter  rued 
His  rash  intrusion,  manlike,  but  his  brows 
Had  sprouted,  and  the  branches  thereupon 
Spread  out  at  top,  and  grimly  spiked  the  gates. 

A  little  space  was  left  between  the  horns, 
Thro'  which  I  clamber'd  o'er  at  top  with  pain, 
Dropt  on  the  sward,  and  up  the  linden  walks, 
And,  tost  on  thoughts  that  chang'd  from  hue  to  hue, 
Now  poring  on  the  glow-worm,  now  the  star, 
I  paced  the  terrace  till  the  Bear  had  wheePd 
.  Thro'  a  great  arc  his  seven  slow  suns. 

A  step 
Of  lightest  echo,  then  a  loftier  form 
Than  female,  moving  thro'  the  uncertain  gloom, 
Disturb'd  me  with  the  doubt  "  if  this  were  she," 
But  it  was  Florian.     '•  Hist,  O  hist,"  he  said, 
"  They  seek  us:  out  so  late  is  out  of  rules. 
Moreover  (  Seize  the  strangers  '  is  the  cry. 
How  came  you  here?"     I  told  him:  "  I,"  said  he, 
"  Last  of  the  train,  a  moral  leper,  I 
To  whom  none  spake,  half-sick  at  heart,  return'd, 
Arriving  all  confus'd  among  the  rest 
With  hooded  brows  I  crept  into  the  hall, 
And,  couch'd  behind  a  Judith,  underneath 
The  head  of  Holofernes  peep'd  and  saw, 
Girl  after  girl  was  call'd  to  trial:  each 
Disclaim'd  all  knowledge  of  us;  last  of  all, 
Melissa:  trust  me,  Sir,  I  pitied  her. 
She,  question'd  if  she  knew  us  men,  at  first 
Was  silent;  closer  prest,  denied  it  not: 
And  then,  demanded  if  her  mother  knew, 
Or  Psyche,  she  affirm'd  not,  or  denied : 
From  whence  the  Royal  mind,  familiar  with  her, 
Easily  gather'd  either  guilt.     She  sent 
For  Psyche,  but  she  was  not  there;  she  call'd 
For  Psyche's  child  to  cast  it  from  the  doors; 
She  sent  for  Blanche  to  accuse  her  face  to  face; 
And  I  slipt  out:  but  whither  will  you  now? 
And  where  are  Psyche,  Cyril?  both  are  fled: 


THE  PRINCESS.    A  MEDLEY.  ooi 

What,  if  together?  that  were  not  so  well. 
Would  rather  we  had  never  come!  I  dread 
His  wildness,  and  the  chances  of  the  dark." 

"  And  yet,"  I  said,  "  you  wrong  him  more  than  I 

That  struck  him :  this  is  proper  to  the  cl6wn, 

Tho'  smock'd,  or  furr'd  and  purpled,  still  the  clown, 

To  harm  the  thing  that  trusts  him,  and  to  shame 

That  which  he  says  he  loves:  for  Cyril,  howe'er 

He  deal  in  frolic,  as  to-night — the  song 

Might  have  been  worse  and  sinn'd  in  grosser  lips 

Beyond  all  pardon — as  it  is,  I  hold 

These  flashes  on  the  surface  are  not  he. 

He  has  a  solid  base  of  temperament: 

But  as  the  water-lily  starts  and  slides 

Upon  the  level  in  little  puffs  of  wind, 

Tho'  anchored  to  the  bottom,  such  is  he." 

Scarce  had  I  ceas'd  when  from  a  tamarisk  near 
Two  Proctors  leapt  upon  us,  crying,  "  Names." 
He,  standing  still,  was  clutch'd;  but  I  began 
To  thrid  the  musky-circled  mazes,  wind 
And  double  in  and  out  the  boles,  and  race 
By  all  the  fountains:  fleet  I  was  of  foot: 
Before  me  shower'd  the  rose  in  flakes;  behind 
I  heard  the  puff'd  pursuer;  at  mine  ear 
Bubbled  the  nightingale  and  heeded  not, 
And  secret  laughter  tickled  all  my  soul. 
At  last  I  hook'd  my  ankle  in  a  vine, 
That  claspt  the  feet  of  a  Mnemosyne, 
And  falling  on  my  face  was  caugbf  an'1  f ;::t 

They  haled  us  to  the  Princess  vuerO  ^*,c  _  .1' 
High  in  the  hall:  above  her  droop'd  a  Ul 
And  made  the  single  jewel  on  her  brow 
Hum  like  the  mystic  fire  on  a  mast-head, 
Prophet  of  storm:  a  hand-maid  on  each  side 
Bow'd  toward  her,  combing  out  her  long  black  hair 
Damp  from  the  river;  and  close  behind  her  stood 
Eight  daughters  of  the  plough,  stronger  than  men, 
Huge  women  blowz'd  with  health,  and  wind,  and  rain 
And  labor.     Each  was  like  a  Druid  rock; 
Or  like  a  spire  of  land  that  stands  apart 
Cleft  from  the  main,  and  wail'd  about  with  mews. 


362  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLET. 

Then,  as  we  came,  the  crowd  dividing  clove 
An  advent  to  the  throne;  and  therebeside, 
Half-naked,  as  if  caught  at  once  from  bed 
And  tumbled  on  the  purple  footcloth,  lay 
The  lily-shining  child;  and  on  the  left, 
Bow'd  on  her  palms  and  folded  up  from  wrong, 
Her  round  white  shoulder  shaken  with  her  sobs, 
Melissa  knelt;  but  Lady  Blanche  erect 
Stood  up  and- spake,  an  affluent  orator. 

"  It  was  not  thus,  O  Princess,  in  old  days: 
You  prized  my  counsel,  lived  upon  my  lips: 
I  led  you  then  to  all  the  Castalies; 
I  fed  you  with  the  milk  of  ever}'  Muse; 
I  loved  you  like  this  kneeler,  and  you  me 
Your  second  mother:  those  were  gracious  times. 
Then  came  your  new  friend :  you  began  to  change — 
I  saw  it  and  griev'd — to  slacken  and  to  cool; 
Till  taken  witjh  her  seeming  openness 
You  turn'd  your  warmer  currents  all  to  her, 
To  me  you  froze:  this  was  my  meed  for  all. 
Yet  I  bore  up  in  part  from  ancient  love, 
And  partly  that  I  hoped  to  win  you  back, 
And  partly  conscious  of  my  own  deserts, 
And  partly  that  you  were  my  civil  head, 
And  chiefly  you  were  born  for  something  great, 
In  which  I  might  your  fellow-worker  be, 
When  time  should  serve;  and  thus  a  noble  scheme 
Grew  up  from  seed  we  two  long  since  had  sown; 
In  us  true  growth,  in  her  a  Jonah's  gourd, 
Up  in  one  night  and  due  to  sudden  sun : 
We  took  this  palace;  but  even  from  the  first 
You  stood  in  your  own  light  and  darken'd  mine, 
What  student  came  but  that  you  planed  her  path 
To  Lady  Psyche,  younger,  not  so  wise, 
A  foreigner,  and  I  your  countrywoman, 
I  your  old  friend  and  tried,  she  new  in  all? 
But  still  her  lists  were  swell'd  and  mine  were  lean; 
Yet  I  bore  up  in  hope  she  would  be  known: 
Then  came  these  wolves:  they  knew  her:  they  endur'd, 
Long-closeted  with  her  the  yester-morn, 
To  tell  her  what  they  were,  and  she  to  hear: 
And  me  none  told :  not  less  to  an  eye  like  mine, 
A  lidless  watcher  of  the  public  weal, 
Last  night,  their  mask  was  patent,  and  my  foot 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY.  363 

Was  to  you:  but  I  thought  again:   I  fearM 

To  meet  a  cold  c  We  thank  you,  we  shall  hear  of  it 

From  Lady  Psyche:1  you  had  gone  to  her, 

She  told,  perforce;  and  winning  easy  grace, 

No  doubt,  for  slight  delay,  remained  among  us 

In  our  young  nursery  still  unknown,  the  stem 

Less  grain  than  touchwood,  while  my  honest  heat 

Were  all  miscounted  as  malignant  haste 

To  push  my  rival  out  of  place  and  power. 

But  public  use  required  she  should  be  known; 

And  since  my  oath  was  ta'en  for  public  use, 

I  broke  the  letter  of  it  to  keep  the  sense. 

I  spoke  not  then  at  first,  but  watch'd  them  well, 

Saw  that  they  kept  apart,  no  mischief  done; 

And  yet  this  day  (tho'  you  should  hate  me  for  it) 

I  came  to  tell  you:  found  that  you  had  gone, 

Ridd'n  to  the  hills,  she  likewise:  now,  I  thought, 

That  surely  she  will  speak;  if  not,  then  I: 

Did  she?  These  monsters  blazon'd  what  they  were, 

According  to  the  coarseness  of  their  kind, 

For  thus  I  hear;  and  known  at  last  (my  work) 

And  full  of  cowardice  and  guilty  shame, 

I  grant  in  her  some  sense  of  shame,  she  flies; 

And  I  remain  on  whom  to  wreak  your  rage, 

I,  that  have  lent  my  life  to  build  up  yours, 

L  that  have  wasted  here  health,  wealth,  and  time, 

And  talents,  I — you  know  it — I  will  not  boast: 

Dismiss  me,  and  I  prophesy  your  plan, 

DivorcM  from  my  experience,  will  be  chaff 

For  every  gust  of  chance,  and  men  will  say 

We  did  not  know  the  real  light,  but  chased 

The  wisp  that  flickers  where  no  foot  can  treac(." 

She  ceased:  the  Princess  answer'd  coldly  "Good: 
Your  oath  is  broken:  we  dismiss  you:  go. 
For  this  lost  lamb  (she  pointed  to  the  child) 
Our  mind  is  changed:  we  take  it  to  ourself." 

Thereat  the  Lady  stretch'd  a  vulture  throat, 
And  shot  from  crooked  lips  a  haggard  smile. 
"  The  plan  was  mine.     I  built  the  nest,"  she  said, 
"  To  hatch  the  cuckoo.     Rise!  "  and  stoop'd  to  updrap* 
Melissa:  she,  half  on  her  mother  propt, 
Half  drooping  from  her,  turn'd  her  face,  and  cast 


364  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 

A  liquid  look  on  Ida,  full  of  prayer, 

Which  melted  Florian's  fancy  as  she  hung, 

A  Niobean  daughter,  one  arm  out, 

Appealing  to  the  bolts  of  Heaven;  and  while 

We  gazed  upon  her  came  a  little  stir 

About  the  doors,  and  on  a  sudden  rush'd 

Among  us,  out  of  breath,  as  one  pursu'd, 

A  woman-post  in  flying  raiment.     Fear 

Star'd  in  her  eyes,  and  chalk'd  her  face,  and  wing'd 

Her  transit  to  the  throne,  whereby  she  fell 

Delivering  seal'd  dispatches  which  the  Head 

Took  half-amaz'd,  and  in  her  lion's  mood 

Tore  open,  silent  we  with  blind  surmise 

Regarding,  while  she  read,  till  over  brow 

And  cheek  and  bosom  brake  the  wrathful  bloom 

As  of  some  fire  against  a  stormy  cloud, 

When  the  wild  peasant  rights  himself,  the  rick 

Flames,  and  his  anger  reddens  in  the  heavens: 

For  anger  most  it  seem'd,  while  now  her  breast, 

Beaten  with  some  great  passion  at  her  heart, 

Palpitated,  her  hand  shook,  and  we  heard 

In  the  dead  hush  the  papers  that  she  held 

Rustle:  at  once  the  lost  lamb  at  her  feet 

Sent  out  a  bitter  bleating  for  its  dam ; 

The  plaintive  cry  jarr'd  on  her  ire ;  she  erush'd 

The  scrolls  together,  made  a  sudden  turn 

As  if  to  speak,  but,  utterance  failing  her, 

She  whirl'd  them  on  to  me,  as  who  should  say, 

"  Read,"  and  I  read — two  letters — one  her  sire's. 

"  Fair  daughter,  when  we  sent  the  Prince  your  way 
We  knew  not  your  ungracious  laws,  which  learnt, 
We,  conscious  of  what  temper  you  are  built, 
Came  all  in  haste  to  hinder  wrong,  but  fell 
Into  his  father's  hands,  who  has  this  night, 
You  lying  close  upon  his  territory, 
Slipt  round  and  in  the  dark  invested  you. 
And  here  he  keeps  me  hostage  for  his  son." 

The  second  was  my  father's,  running  thus: 
"  You  have  our  son :  touch  not  a  hair  of  his  head : 
Render  him  up  unscath'd:  give  him  your  hand: 
Cleave  to  your  contract:  tho'  indeed  we  hear 
You  hold  the  woman  is  the  better  man: 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLE  f.  365 

A  rampant  heresy,  such  as  if  it  spread 

Would  make  all  women  kick  against  their  lords 

Thro'  all  the  world,  and  which  might  well  deserve 

That  we  this  night  should  pluck  your  palace  down; 

And  we  will  do  it,  unless  you  send  us  back 

Our  son,  on  the  instant,  whole." 

,  So  far  I  read; 

And  then  stood  up  and  spoke  impetuously. 

"  O,  not  to  pry  and  peer  on  your  reserve, 
But  led  by  golden  wishes,  and  a  hope 
The  child  of  regal  compact,  did  I  break 
Your  precinct;  not  a  scorner  of  your  sex 
But  venerator,  zealous  it  should  be 
All  that  it  might  be;  hear  me,  for  I  bear, 
ThV  man,  yet  human,  whatso'er  your  wrongs. 
From  the  flaxen  curl  to  the  gray  lock  a  life 
Less  mine  than  yours:  my  nurse  would  tell  me  of  you; 
I  babbled  for  you,  as  babies  for  the  moon, 
Vague  brightness ;  when  a  boy,  you  stoop'd  to  me 
From  all  high  places,  lived  in  all  fair  lights, 
Came  in  long  breezes  rapt  from  inmost  south 
And  blown  to  inmost  north;  at  eve  and  dawn 
With  Ida,  Ida,  Ida,  rang  the  woods; 
The  leader  wild-swan  in  among  the  stars 
Would  clang  it,  and  lapt  in  wreaths  of  glow-worm  light 
The  mellow  breaker  murmur'd  Ida.     Now, 
Because  I  would  have  reach'd  you,  had  you  been 
Sphered  up  with  Cassiopeia,  or  the  enthroned 
Peresphone  in  Hades,  now  at  length, 
Those  winters  of  abeyance  all  worn  out, 
A  man  I  came  to  see  you:  but,  indeed, 
Not  in  this  frequence  can  I  lend  full  tongue, 
O  noble  Ida,  to  those  thoughts  that  wait 
On  you,  their  centre:  let  me  say  but  this, 
That  many  a  famous  mat  and  woman,  town 
And  landskip,  have  I  heard  of,  after  seen 
The  dwarfs  of  pres  age;  tho'  when  known,  there  grew 
Another  kind  of  beauty  in  detail 
Made  them  worth  knowing;  but  in  you  I  found 
My  boyish  dream  involv'd  and  dazzled  down 
And  master'd,  while  that  after-beauty  makes 
Such  head  from  act  to  act,  from  hour  to  hour, 
Within  me,  that  except  you  slay  me  here, 
According  to  your  bitter  statute-book, 


366  THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLET. 

I  cannot  cease  to  follow  you,  as  they  say 

The  seal  does  music;  who  desire  you  more 

Than  growing  boys  their  manhood :  dying  lips, 

With  many  thousand  matters  left  to  do, 

The  breath  of  life;  oh!  more  than  poor  men  wealth, 

Than  sick  men  health, — yours,  yours,  not  mine, — but  half 

Without  you,  with  you,  whole ;  and  of  those  halves 

You  worthiest:  and  howe'er  you  block  and  bar 

Your  heart  with  system  out  from  mine,  I  hold 

That  it  becomes  no  man  to  nurse  despair, 

But  in  the  teeth  of  clench'd  antagonisms 

To  follow  up  the  worthiest  till  he  die: 

Yet  that  I  came  not  all  unauthoriz'd 

Behold  your  father's  letter." 

On  one  knee 
Kneeling,  I  gave  it,  which  she  caught,  and  dash'd 
Unopen'd  at  her  feet:  a  tide  of  fierce 
Invective  seem'd  to  wait  behind  her  lips, 
As  waits  a  river  level  with  the  dam 
Ready  to  burst  and  flood  the  world  with  foam; 
And  so  she  would  have  spoken,  but  there  rose 
A  hubbub  in  the  court  of  half  the  maids 
Gather'd  together:  from  the  illumin'd  hall 
Long  lanes  of  splendor  slanted  o'er  a  press 
Of  snowy  shoulders,  thick  as  herded  ewes, 
And  rainbow  robes,  and  gems  and  gem-like  eyes, 
And  gold  and  golden  heads;  they  to  and  fro 
Fluctuated,  as  flowers  in  storm,  some  red,  some  pale, 
All  open-mouth'd,  all  gazing  to  the  light, 
Some  crying  there  was  an  army  in  the  land, 
And  some  that  men  were  in  the  very  walls, 
And  some  they  cared  not;  till  a  clamor  grew 
As  of  a  new-world  Babel,  woman-built, 
And  worse  confounded :  high  above  them  stood 
The  placid  marble  Muses,  looking  peace. 

Not  peace  she  look'd,  the  Head :  but  rising  up 
Robed  in  the  long  night  of  her  deep  hair,  so 
To  the  open  window  moved,  remaining  there 
Fixt  like  a  beacon-tower  above  the  waves 
Of  tempest,  when  the  crimson-rolling  eye 
Glares  ruin,  and  the  wild  birds  on  the  light 
Dash  themselves  dead.     She  stretch'd  her  arms  and  call'd 
Across  the  tumult  and  the  tumult  fell. 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY.  367 

"  What  fear  ye  brawlers?  am  not  I  your  Head? 
On  me,  me,  me,  the  storm  first  breaks:  /  dare 
All  these  male  thunderbolts:  what  is  it  ve  liar? 
Peace!  there  are  those  to  avenge  us  and  they  come: 
If  not, — myself  were  like  enough,  O  girls, 
To  unfurl  the  maiden  banner  of  our  rights, 
And  clad  in  iron  burst  the  ranks  of  war, 
Or,  falling,  prolomartyr of  our  cause, 
Die:  yet  I  blame  ye  not  so  much  for  fear; 
Si\  thousand  years  of  fear  have  made  ye  that 
From  which  I  would  redeem  ye:  but  for  those 
That  stir  this  hubbub — you  and  you — I  know 
Your  faces  there  in  the  crowd — to-morrow  morn 
We  hold  a  great  convention:  then  shall  they 
That  love  their  voices  more  than  duty,  learn 
With  whom  they  deal,  dismissal  in  shame  to  live 
No  wiser  than  their  mothers,  household  stuff, 
Live  chattels,  mincers  of  each  other's  fame, 
Full  of  weak  poison,  turnspits  for  the  clown, 
The  drunkard's  football,  laughing-stocks  of  Time, 
Whose  brains  are  in  their  hands  and  in  their  heels, 
But  fit  to  flaunt,  to  dress,  to  dance,  to  thrum, 
To  tramp,  to  scream,  to  burnish,  and  to  scour, 
Forever  slaves  at  home  and  fools  abroad." 


She,  ending,  waved  her  hands:  thereat  the  crowd 
Muttering  dissolv'd:  then  with  a  smile,  that  look'd 
A  stroke  of  cruel  sunshine  on  the  cliff, 
When  all  the  glens  are  drown'd  in  azure  gloom 
Of  thunder-shower,  she  floated  to  us  and  said: 

"  You  have  done  well  and  like  a  gentleman, 
And  like  a  prince;  you  have  our  thanks  for  all: 
And  you  look  well  too  in  your  woman's  dress: 
Well  have  you  done  and  like  a  gentleman* 
You  saved  our  life:  we  owe  you  bitter  thanks: 
Better  have  died  and  spilt  our  bones  in  the  flood — 
Then  men  had  said — but  now — What  hinders  me 
To  take  such  bloody  vengeance  on  \<>u  both? — 
Yet  since  our  father — Wasps  in  our  good  hive, 
You  would  be  quenchers  of  the  light  to  be, 
Barbarians,  grosser  than  your  native  hears — 
O  would  I  had  his  sceptre  for  one  hour! 
You  that  have  dared  to  break  our  bound,  and  gull'd 


868  THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLET. 

Our  servants,  wrong'd  and  lied  and  thwarted  us — 
I  wed  with  thee !     /  bound  by  precontract 
Your  bride,  your  bondslave!  not  tho'  all  the  gold 
That  veins  the  world  were  pack'd  to  make  your  crown 
And  every  spoken  tongue  should  lord  you.     Sir, 
Your  falsehood  and  yourself  are  hateful  to  us: 
I  trample  on  your  offers  and  on  you: 
Begone:  we  will  not  look  upon  you  more. 
Here,  push  them  out  at  gates." 

In  wrath  she  spake. 
Then  those  eight  mighty  daughters  of  the  plough 
Bent  their  broad  faces  toward  us  and  address'd 
Their  motion :  twice  I  sought  to  plead  my  cause, 
But  on  my  shoulder  hung  their  heavy  hands, 
The  weight  of  destiny :  so  from  her  face 
They  push'd  us,  down  the  steps,  and  thro'  the  court, 
And  with  grim  laughter  thrust  us  out  at  gates. 

We  cross'd  the  street  and  gain'd  a  petty  mound 
Beyond  it,  whence  we  saw  the  lights  and  heard 
The  voices  murmuring.     While  I  listen'd,  came 
On  a  sudden  the  weird  seizure  and  the  doubt: 
I  seem'd  to  move  among  a  world  of  ghosts: 
The  Princess  with  her  monstrous  woman-guard, 
The  jest  and  earnest  working  side  by  side, 
The  cataract  and  the  tumult  and  the  kings 
Were  shadows ;  and  the  long  fantastic  night 
W  ith  all  its  doings  had  and  had  not  been, 
And  all  things  were  and  were  not. 

This  went  by 
As  strangely  as  it  came,  and  on  my  spirits 
Settled  a  gentle  cloud  of  melancholy; 
Not  long;  I  shook  it  off;  for  spite  of  doubts 
And  sudden  ghostly  shadowings  I  was  one 
To  whom  the  touch  of  all  mischance  but  came 
As  night  to  him  that  sitting  on  a  hill 
Sees  the  midsummer  midnight,  Norway  su. 
Set  into  sunrise :  then  we  moved  away. 


Thy  voice  is  heard  thro'  rolling  drums, 
That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands ; 

Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 
And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands: 

A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow. 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY.  369 


He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee; 
The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 


So  Lilia  sang:  we  thought  her  half-possess'd, 
She  struck  such  warbling  fury  thro'  the  words; 
And,  after  feigning  pique  at  what  she  call'd 
The  raillery,  or  grotesque,  or  false  sublime — 
Like  one  that  wishes  at  a  dance  to  change 
The  music — clapt  her  hands  and  cried  for  war, 
Or  some  grand  fight  to  kill  and  make  an  end: 
And  he  that  next  inherited  the  tale 
Half-turning  to  the  broken  statue  said : 
"  Sir  Ralph  has  got  your  colors:  if  I  prove 
Your  knight,  and  fight  your  battle,  what  for  me?" 
It  chanc'd,  her  empty  glove  upon  the  tomb 
Lay  by  her  like  a  model  of  her  hand. 
She  took  it  and  she  flung  it.     "  Fight,"  she  said, 
"  And  make  us  all  we  would  be,  great  and  good." 
He  knightlike  in  his  cap  instead  of  casque, 
A  cap  of  Tyrol  borrow'd  from  the  hall, 
Arranged  the  favor,  and  assum'd  the  Prince. 


Now,  scarce  three  paces  measured  from  the  mound, 
We  stumbled  on  a  stationary  voice, 
And  "  Stand,  who  goes? "     "  Two  from  the  palace,"  1 
"  The  second  two:  they  wait,"  he  said,  "  pass  on; 
His  Highness  wakes  ":  and  one,  that  clash'd  in  arms, 
By  glimmering  lanes  the  walls  of  canvas,  led 
Threading  the  soldier-city,  till  we  heard 
The  drowsy  folds  of  our  great  ensign  shake 
From  blazon'd  lions  o'er  the  imperial  tent 
Whispers  of  war. 

Entering,  the  sudden  light 
Dazed  me  half-blind:  I  stood  and  seemM  to  hear, 
As  in  a  poplar  grove  when  a  light  wind  wakes 
A  lisping  of  the  innumerous  leaf  and  dies, 
Each  hissing  in  his  neighbor's  ear;  and  then 
A  strangled  titter,  out  of  which  there  brake 
On  all  sides,  clamoring  etiquette  to  death, 
Unmeasur'd  mirth;  while  now  the  two  old  kings 
Began  to  wag  their  baldness  up  and  down, 
The  fresh  young  captains  flash'd  their  glittering  teeth, 


370  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY. 

The  huge  bush-bearded  Barons  heaved  and  blew, 
And  slain  with  laughter  roll'd  the  gilded  Squire. 

At  length  my  Sire,  his  rough  cheek  wet  with  tear 
Panted  from  weary  sides,  "  King,  you  are  free! 
We  did  but  keep  you  surety  for  our  son, 
If  this  be  he, — or  a  draggled  mawkin,  thou, 
That  tends  her  bristled  grunters  in  the  sludge:  " 
For  I  was  drench'd  with  ooze,  and  torn  with  briers, 
More  crumpled  than  a  poppy  from  the  sheath, 
And  all  one  rag,  disprinc'd  from  head  to  heel. 
Then  some  one  sent  beneath  his  vaulted  palm 
A  whisper'd  jest  to  some  one  near  him  "  Look, 
He  has  been  among  his  shadows."     "  Satan  take 
The  old  women  and  their  shadows!  (thus  the  King 
Roar'd)  make  yourself  a  man  to  fight  with  men. 
Go:  Cyril  told  us  all." 

As  boys  that  slink 
From  ferule  and  the  trespass-chiding  eye, 
Away  we  stole,  and  transient  in  a  trice 
From  what  was  left  of  faded  woman  slough 
To  sheathing  splendors  and  the  golden  scale 
Of  harness,  issued  in  the  sun,  that  now 
Leapt  from  the  dewy  shoulders  of  the  Earth, 
And  hit  the  northern  hills. 

Here  Cyril  met  us, 
A  little  shy  at  first,  but  by  and  by 
We  twain,  with  mutual  pardon  ask'd  and  given 
For  stroke  and  song,  resolder'd  peace,  whereon 
Follow'd  his  tale.     Amaz'd  he  fled  away 
Thro'  the  dark  land,  and  later  in  the  night 
Had  come  on  Psyche  weeping:  "  then  we  fell 
Into  your  father's  hand  and  there  she  lies, 
But  will  not  speak,  nor  stir." 

He  show'd  a  tent 
A  stone-shot  off:  we  enter'd  in,  and  there 
Among  piled  arms  and  rough  accoutrements, 
Pitiful  sight,  wrapt  in  a  soldier's  cloak, 
Like  some  sweet  sculpture  draped  from  head  to  foot, 
And  push'd  by  rude  hands  from  its  pedestal, 
All  her  fair  length  upon  the  ground  she  lay: 
And  at  her  head  a  follower  of  the  camp, 
A  charr'd  and  wrinkled  piece  of  womanhood, 
Sat  watching  like  a  watcher  by  the  dead. 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY. 


Then  Florian  knelt,  and  "Come  "  he  whisper'd  to  her} 
"  Lift  up  your  head,  sweet  sister:  lie  not  thus 
What  have  you  done  but  right?  you  could  not  slay 
Me,  nor  your  prince:  look  up:  be  comforted: 
Sweet  is  it  to  have  done  the  thing  one  ought, 
When  fall'n  in  darker  ways."     And  likewise  I: 
"  Be  comforted:  have  I  not  lost  her  too, 
In  whose  least  act  abides  the  nameless  charm 
That  none  has  else  for  me?  "     She  heard,  she  moved, 
She  moan'd,  a  folded  voice ;  and  up  she  sat, 
And  rais'd  the  cloak  from  brows  as  pale  and  smooth 
As  those  that  mourn  half-shrouded  over  death 
In  deathless  marble.     "  Her,"  she  said,  "  my  friend — 
Parted  from  her — betray'd  her  cause  and  mine — 
Where  shall  I  breathe?  why  kept  ye  not  your  faith? 
O  base  and  bad!  what  comfort?  none  for  mi!  " 
To  whom  remorseful  Cyril,  "  Yet  I  pray 
Take  comfort:  live,  dear  lady,  for  your  child!  " 
At  which  she  lifted  up  her  voice  and  cried : 

"  Ah  me,  my  babe,  my  blossom,  ah,  my  child, 
My  one  sweet  child,  whom  I  shall  see  no  more! 
For  now  will  cruel  Ida  keep  her  back; 
And  either  she  will  die  from  want  of  care, 
Or  sicken  with  ill-usage,  when  they  say 
The  child  is  hers — for  every  little  fault, 
The  child  is  hers;  and  they  will  beat  my  girl 
Remembering  her  mother:  O  my  flower! 
Or  they  will  take  her,  they  will  make  her  hard, 
And  she  will  pass  me  by  in  after-life 
With  some  cold  reverence  worse  than  were  she  dead. 
Ill  mother  that  I  was  to  leave  her  there, 
To  lag  behind,  scared  by  the  cry  they  made, 
The  horror  of  the  shame  among  them  all: 
But  I  will  go  and  sit  beside  the  doors, 
And  make  a  wild  petition  night  and  day, 
Until  they  hate  to  hear  me  like  a  wind 
Wailing  forever,  till  they  open  to  me, 
And  lay  my  little  blossom  at  my  feet, 
My  babe,  my  sweet  Aglaia,  my  one  child : 
And  I  will  take  her  up  and  go  my  way, 
And  satisfy  my  soul  with  kissing  her: 
Ah!  what  might  that  man  not  deserve  of  me, 
Who  gave  me  back  my  child?  "     M  Be  comforted," 


372  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 

Said  Cyril,  "  you  shall  have  it,"  but  again 
She  veil'd  her  brows,  and  prone  she  sank,  and  so 
Like  tender  things  that  being  caught  feign  death, 
Spoke  not,  nor  stirr'd. 

By  this  a  murmur  ran 
Thro'  all  the  camp  and  inward  raced  the  scouts 
With  rumor  of  Prince  Arac  hard  at  hand. 
We  left  her  by  the  woman,  and  without 
Found  the  gray  kings  at  parle:  and  "  Look  you,"  cried 
My  father,  "  that  our  compact  be  fulfill'd : 
You  have  spoilt  this  child;  she  laughs  at  you  and  man: 
She  wrongs  herself,  her  sex,  and  me,  and  him : 
But  red-faced  war  has  rods  of  steel  and  fire; 
She  yields,  or  war." 

Then  Gama  turn'd  to  me: 
"  We  fear,  indeed,  you  spent  a  stormy  time 
With  our  strange  girl :  and  yet  they  say  that  still 
You  love  her.     Give  us,  then,  your  mind  at  large; 
How  say  you,  war  or  not? " 

"  Not  war,  if  possible, 

0  king,"  I  said,  "  lest  from  the  abuse  of  war, 
The  desecrated  shrine,  the  trampled  year, 

The  smouldering  homestead,  and  the  household  flower 

Torn  from  the  lintel — all  the  common  wrong — 

A  smoke  go  up  thro'  which  I  loom  to  her 

Three  times  a  monster:  now  she  lightens  scorn 

At  him  that  mars  her  plan,  but  then  would  hate 

(And  every  voice  she  talk'd  with  ratify  it, 

And  every  face  she  look'd  on  justify  it) 

The  general  foe.     More  soluble  is  this  knot, 

By  gentleness  than  war.     I  want  her  love. 

What  were  I  nigher  this  altho'  we  dash'd 

Your  cities  into  shards  with  catapults, 

She  would  not  love; — or  brought  her  chain'd,  a  slave, 

The  lifting  of  whose  eyelash  is  my  lord, 

Not  ever  would  she  love ;  but  brooding  turn 

The  book  of  scorn  till  all  my  flitting  chance 

Were  caught  within  the  record  of  her  wrongs, 

And  crush'd  to  death;  and  rather,  Sire,  than  this 

1  would  the  old  God  of  war  himself  were  dead, 
Forgotten,  rusting  on  his  iron  hills, 

Rotting  on  some  wild  shore  with  ribs  of  wreck, 
Or  like  an  old-world  mammoth  bulk'd  in  ice. 
Not  to  be  molten  out,', 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MED  LET.  373 

And  roughly  spake 
My  father,  "  Tut,  you  know  them  not,  the  girls. 
Boy,  when  I  hear  you  prate  I  almost  think 
That  idiot  legend  credible.     Look  you,  Sir! 
Man  is  the  hunter;  woman  is  his  game: 
The  sleek  and  shining  creatures  of  the  chase, 
We  hunt  them  for  the  beauty  of  their  skins; 
They  love  us  for  it,  and  we  ride  them  down. 
Wheedling  and  siding  with  them!     Out!  for  shame! 
Boy,  there's  no  rose  that's  half  so  dear  to  them 
As  he  that  does  the  thing  they  dare  not  do, 
Breathing  and  sounding  beauteous  battle,  comes 
With  the  air  of  the  trumpet  round  him,  and  leaps  in 
Among  the  women,  snares  them  by  the  score 
Flatter'd  and  fluster'd,  wins,  though  dash'd  with  death 
He  reddens  what  he  kisses:  thus  I  won 
Your  mother,  a  good  mother,  a  good  wife, 
Worth  winning;  but  this  firebrand — gentleness 
To  such  as  her!  if  Cyril  spake  her  true, 
To  catch  a  dragon  in  a  cherry  net, 
To  trip  a  tiger  with  a  gossamer, 
Were  wisdom  to  it." 

"  Yea,  but  Sire,"  1  cried, 
"Wild  natures  need  wise  curbs.     The  soldier?     No: 
What  dares  not  Ida  do  that  she  should  prize 
The  soldier?     I  beheld  her,  when  she  rose 
The  yester-night,  and  storming  in  extremes 
Stood  for  her  cause,  and  flung  defiance  down 
Gagelike  to  man,  and  had  not  shunn'd  the  death, 
No,  not  the  soldier's:  yet  I  hold  her,  king, 
True  woman:  but  you  clash  them  all  in  one, 
That  have  as  many  differences  as  we. 
The  violet  varies  from  the  lily  as  far 
As  oak  from  elm:  one  loves  the  soldier,  one 
The  silken  priest  of  peace,  one  this,  one  that, 
And  some  unworthily ;  their  sinless  faith, 
A  maiden  moon  that  sparkles  on  a  sty, 
Glorifying  clown  and  satyr;  whence  they  need 
More  breadth  of  culture:  is  not  Ida  right? 
They  worth  it?  truer  to  the  law  within? 
Severer  in  the  logic  of  a  life? 
Twice  as  magnetic  to  sweet  influences 
Of  earth  and  heaven?  and  she  of  whom  you  speak, 
My  mother,  looks  as  whole  as  some  serene 
Creation  minted  in  the  golden  moods 


374  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY. 

Of  sovereign  artists;  not  a  thought,  a  touch, 
But  pure  as  lines  of  green  that  streak  the  white 
Of  the  first  snowdrop's  inner  leaves;  I  say, 
Not  like  the  piebald  miscellany,  man, 
Bursts  of  great  heart  and  slips  in  sensual  mire, 
But  whole  and  one:  but  take  them  all-in-all, 
Were  we  ourselves  but  half  as  good,  as  kind, 
As  truthful,  much  as  Ida  claims  as  right 
Had  ne'er  been  mooted,  but  as  frankly  theirs 
As  dues  of  Nature.     To  our  point:  not  war: 
Lest  I  lose  all." 

"  Nay,  nay,  you  spake  but  sense, 
Said  Gama.     "We  remember  love  ourselves 
In  our  sweet  youth;  we  did  not  rate  him  then 
This  red-hot  iron  to  be  shaped  with  blows. 
You  talk  almost  like  Ida:  she  can  talk; 
And  there  is  something  in  it  as  you  say ; 
But  you  talk  kindlier;  we  esteem  you  for  it. — 
He  seems  a  gracious  and  a  gallant  Prince, 
I  would  he  had  our  daughter;  for  the  rest, 
Our  own  detention,  why  the  causes  weigh'd, 
Fatherly  fears — you  used  us  courteously — 
We  would  do  much  to  gratify  your  Prince — 
We  pardon  it;  and  for  your  ingress  here 
Upon  the  skirt  and  fringe  of  our  fair  land, 
You  did  but  come  as  goblins  in  the  night, 
Nor  in  the  furrow  broke  the  ploughman's  head, 
Nor  burnt  the  grange,  nor  buss'd  the  milking-maid, 
Nor  robb'd  the  farmer  of  his  bowl  of  cream : 
But  let  our  Prince  (our  royal  word  upon  it, 
He  comes  back  safe)   ride  with  us  to  our  lines, 
And  speak  with  Arac:  Arac's  word  is  thrice 
As  ours  with  Ida;  something  may  be  done — 
I  know  not  what — and  ours  shall  see  us  friends. 
You,  likewise,  our  late  guests,  if  so  you  will, 
Follow  us:  who  knows?  we  four  may  build  some  plan 
Foursquare  to  opposition." 

Here  he  reach'd 
White  hands  of  farewell  to  my  sire,  who  growl  d 
An  answer  which,  half-muffled  in  his  beard, 
Let  so  much  out  as  gave  us  leave  to  go. 

Then  rode  we  with  the  old  king  across  the  lawns 
Beneath  huge  trees,  a  thousand  rings  of  Spring 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDL1  375 

In  every  hole,  a  song  on  every  spray 

Of  birds  that  piped  their  Valentines,  and  woke 

Desire  in  me  to  infuse  my  tale  of  love 

In  the  old  kind's  cars,  who  promisM  help,  and  ooz'd 

All  o'er  with  honey'd  answer  as  we  rode; 

Aiul  blossom -fragrant  slipt  the  heavy  dew* 

Gather'd  by  night  and  peace,  with  each  light  air 

On  our  mail'd  heads;  hut  other  thoughts  than  IV 

Burnt  in  us,  when  we  saw  the  embattled  squares, 

And  squadrons  of  the  Prince,  trampling  the  Rowers 

With  clamor:  for  among  them  rose  a  cry 

As  if  to  greet  the  king:  they  made  a  halt ; 

The  horses  yell'd;  they  clash'd  their  arms;  the  drum 

Beat;  merrily  blowing  shrill'd  the  martial  rife; 

And  in  the  blast  and  bray  of  the  long  horn 

And  serpent-throated  bugle,  undulated 

The  banner:  anon  to  meet  us  lightly  prane'd 

Three  captains  out;  nor  ever  had  I  seen 

Such  thews  of  men:  the  midmost  and  the  highest 

Was  Arac;  all  about  his  motion  clung 

The  shadow  of  his  sister,  as  the  beam 

Of  the  East,  that  play'd  upon  them,  made  them  glance 

Like  those  three  stars  of  the  airy  Giant's  /one, 

That  glitter  burnish'd  by  the  frosty  dark; 

And  as  the  fiery  Sirius  alters  hue, 

And  bickers  into  red  and  emerald,  shone 

Their  morions,  wash'd  with  morning,  as  they  came. 

And  I  that  prated  peace,  when  first  I  heard 
War-music,  felt  the  blind  wild  beast  of  force, 
Whose  home  is  in  the  sinews  of  a  man, 
Stir  in  me  as  to  strike;  then  took  the  king 
His  three  broad  sons;  with  now  a  wandering  hand 
And  now  a  pointed  finger,  told  them  all : 
A  common  light  of  smiles  at  our  disguise 
Broke  from  their  lips,  and,  ere  the  windy  jest 
Had  laborM  down  within  his  ample  lun. 
The  genial  giant,  Arac,  roll'd  himself 
Thrice  in  the  saddle,  then  burst  out  in  words. 

"Our  land  invaded,  \sdeath!  and  he  himself 
Your  captive,  yet  my  father  wills  not  war: 
And,  'sdeath!  myself,  what  care  I,  war  or  no? 
But  then  this  question  of  your  troth  remains: 
And  there's  a  downright  honest  meaning  in  UTJ 


876  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 

She  flies  too  high,  she  flies  too  high!  and  yet 

She  ask'd  but  space  and  fairplay  for  her  scheme: 

She  prest  and  prest  it  on  me — I  myself, 

What  know  I  of  these  things?  but,  life  and  soul! 

I  thought  her  half- right  talking  of  her  wrongs: 

I  say  she  flies  too  high,  'sdeath!  what  of  that? 

I  take  her  for  the  flower  of  womankind, 

And  so  I  often  told  her,  right  or  wrong*, 

And,  Prince,  she  can  be  sweet  to  those  she  loves, 

And,  right  or  wrong,  I  care  not:  this  is  all, 

I  stand  upon  her  side;  she  made  me  swear  it — 

'Sdeath, — and  with  solemn  rites  by  candle-light — 

Swear  by  St.  something — I  forget  her  name — 

Her  that  talk'd  down  the  fifty  wisest  men; 

She  was  a  princess  too ;  and  so  I  swore. 

Come,  this  is  all;  she  will  not:  waive  your  claim, 

If  not,  the  foughten  field,  what  else,  at  once 

Decides  it,  'sdeath!  against  my  father's  will." 

I  lagg'd  in  answer  loath  to  render  up 
My  precontract,  and  loath  by  brainless  war 
To  cleave  the  rift  of  difference  deeper  yet; 
Till  one  of  those  two  brothers,  half  aside 
And  fingering  at  the  hair  about  his  lip, 
To  prick  us  on  to  combat  "  Like  to  like! 
The  woman's  garment  hid  the  woman's  heart." 
A  taunt  that  clench'd  his  purpose  like  a  blow! 
For  fiery-short  was  Cyril's  counterscofF, 
And  sharp  I  answer'd  touch'd  upon  the  point 
Where  idle  boys  are  cowards  to  their  shame, 
"  Decide  it  here:  why  not?  we  are  three  to  three." 

Then  spake  the  third,  "But  three  to  three?  no  more! 
No  more,  and  in  our  noble  sister's  cause? 
More,  more,  for  honor:  every  captain  waits 
Hungry  for  honor,  angry  for  his  king. 
More,  more,  some  fifty  on  a  side,  that  each 
May  breathe  himself,  and  quick!  by  overthrow 
Of  these  or  those,  the  question  settled  die." 

"Yea,"  answer'd  I,  "for  this  wild  wreath  of  air, 
This  flake  of  rainbow  flying  on  the  highest 
Foam  of  men's  deeds — this  honor,  if  ye  will. 
It  needs  must  be  for  honor  if  at  all : 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET.  377 

Since,  what  decision?  if  we  fail,  we  fail, 

And  if  we  win,  we  fail:  she  would  not  keep 

Her  compact."     "  'Sdeath!  but  we  will  send  to  her," 

Said  Arac,  "  worthy  reasons  why  she  should 

Bide  by  this  issue:  let  our  missive  thro', 

And  you  shall  have  her  answer  by  the  word." 

"  Boys!  "  shriek'd  the  old  king,  but  vainlier  than  a  hen 
To  her  false  daughters  in  the  pool ;  for  none 
Regarded;  neither  seem'd  there  more  to  say: 
Back  rode  we  to  my  father's  camp,  and  found 
He  thrice  had  sent  a  herald  to  the  gates, 
To  learn  if  Ida  yet  would  cede  our  claim, 
Or  by  denial  flush  her  babbling  wells 
With  her  own  people's  life:  three  times  he  went: 
The  first,  he  blew  and  blew,  but  none  appear'd: 
He  batter'd  at  the  doors;  none  came:  the  next, 
An  awful  voice  within  had  warn'd  him  thence: 
The  third,  and  those  eight  daughters  of  the  plough 
Came  sallying  through  the  gates,  and  caught  his  hair, 
And  so  belabor'd  him  on  rib  and  cheek 
They  made  him  wild:  not  less  one  glance  he  caught 
Thro'  open  doors  of  Ida  station'd  there 
Unshaken,  clinging  to  her  purpose,  firm 
Tho'  compass'd  by  two  armies  and  the  noise 
Of  arms;  and  standing  like  a  stately  Pine 
Set  in  a  cataract  on  an  island-crag, 
When  storm  is  on  the  heights,  and  right  and  left 
SuckM  from  the  dark  heart  of  the  long  hills  roll 
The  torrents,  dashM  to  the  vale:  and  yet  her  will 
Bred  will  in  me  to  overcome  or  fall. 

But  when  I  told  the  king  that  I  was  pledg'd 
To  fight  in  tourney  for  my  bride,  he  clash'd 
His  iron  palms  together  with  a  cry; 
Himself  would  tilt  it  out  among  the  lads: 
But  overborne  by  all  his  bearded  lords 
With  reasons  drawn  from  age  and  state,  perforce 
He  yielded,  wroth  and  red,  with  fierce  demur: 
And  many  a  bold  knight  started  up  in  heat, 
And  sware  to  combat  for  my  claim  till  death. 

All  on  this  side  the  palace  ran  the  field 
Flat  to  the  garden  wall :  and  likewise  here, 


378  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 


Above  the  garden's  glowing  blossom-belts, 

A  column'd  entry  shone  and  marble  stairs, 

And  great  bronze  valves,  ernboss'd  with  Tomyris 

And  what  she  did  to  Cyrus  after  fight, 

But  now  fast  barr'd:  so  here  upon  the  flat 

All  that  long  morn  the  lists  were  hammer'd  up, 

And  all  that  morn  the  heralds  to  and  fro, 

With  message  and  defiance,  went  and  came; 

Last,  Ida's  answer,  in  a  royal  hand, 

But  shaken  here  and  there,  and  rolling  words 

Oration-like.     I  kiss'd  it  and  I  read. 

"  O  brother,  you  have  known  the  pangs  we  felt, 
What  heats  of  indignation  when  we  heard 
Of  those  that  iron-cramp'd  their  women's  feet; 
Of  lands  in  which  at  the  altar  the  poor  bride 
Gives  her  harsh  groom  for  bridal-gift  a  scourge; 
Of  living  hearts  that  crack  within  the  fire 
Where  smoulder  their  dead  despots;  and  of  those, — . 
Mothers, — that,  all  prophetic  pity,  fling 
Their  pretty  maids  in  the  running  flood,  and  swoops 
The  vulture,  beak  and  talon,  at  the  heart 
Made  for  all  noble  motion:  and  I  saw 
That  equal  baseness  lived  in  sleeker  times 
With  smoother  men:  the  old  leaven  leaven'd  all: 
Millions  of  throats  would  bawl  for  civil  rights, 
No  woman  named:  therefore  I  set  my  face 
Against  all  men,  and  lived  but  for  mine  own, 
Far  off  from  men  I  built  a  fold  for  them : 
I  stored  it  full  of  rich  memorial : 
I  fenc'd  it  round  with  gallant  institutes, 
And  biting  laws  to  scare  the  beasts  of  prey, 
And  prosper'd;  till  a  rout  of  saucy  boys 
Brake  on  us  at  our  books,  and  marr'd  our  peace, 
Mask'd  like  our  maids,  blustering  I  knew  not  what 
Of  insolence  and  love,  some  pretext  held 
Of  baby  troth,  invalid,  since  my  will 
Seal'd  not  the  bond — the  striplings! — for  their  sport! — 
I  tamed  my  leopards:  shall  I  not  tame  these? 
Or  you?  or  I?  for  since  you  think  me  touch'd 
In  honor — what,  I  would  not  aught  of  false — 
Is  not  our  cause  pure?  and  whereas  I  know 
Your  prowess,  Arac,  and  what  mother's  blood 
You  draw  from,  fight,  you  failing,  I  abide 
What  end  soever:  fail  you  will  not.  Still 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  AfEDLET.  379 

Take  not  his  life:  he  riskM  it  for  my  own; 

His  mother  lives:  yet  whatsoe'er  you  (!<», 

Fight  and  fight  well;  strike  and  strike  home.     O  dear 

Brothers,  the  woman's  Angel  guards  you,  you 

The  sole  men  to  be  mingled  with  our  cause, 

The  sole  men  we  shall  prize  in  the  after-tinu i, 

Your  very  armor  hallowM,  and  your  statues 

Kear'd,  sung  to,  when  this  gad-fly  brush'd  aside, 

We  plant  a  solid  foot  into  the  Time, 

And  mould  a  generation  strong  to  move 

With  claim  on  claim,  from  right  to  right,  till  she 

Whose  name  is  yoked  with  children's,  know  herself; 

And  knowledge  in  our  own  land  make  her  free, 

And,  ever  following  those  two  crowned  twins, 

Commerce  and  conquest,  shower  the  fiery  grain 

Of  freedom- broadcast  over  all  that  orbs 

Between  the  Northern  and  the  Southern  morn." 


Then  came  a  postcript  dash'd  across  the  rest. 
"  See  that  there  be  no  traitors  in  your  camp: 
We  seem  a  nest  of  traitors — none  to  trust: 
Since  our  arms  fail'd — this  Egypt  plague  of  men! 
Almost  our  maids  were  better  at  their  homes, 
Than  thus  man-girdled  here:  indeed  I  think 
Our  chiefest  comfort  is  the  little  child 
Of  one  unworthy  mother;  which  she  left: 
She  shall  not  have  it  back:  the  child  shall  grow 
To  prize  the  authentic  mother  of  her  mind. 
I  took  it  for  an  hour  in  my  own  bed 
This  morning:  there  the  tender  orphan  hands 
Felt  at  my  heart,  and  seemed  to  charm  from  thence 
The  wrath  I  nurs'd  against  the  world:  farewell." 

I  ceased :  he  said :  "  Stubborn,  but  she  may  sit 
Upon  a  king's  right  hand  in  thunderstorms, 
And  breed  up  warriors!     See  now,  tho'  yourself 
Be  dazzled  by  the  wildfire  Love  to  sloughs 
That  swallow  common  sense,  the  spindling  king, 
This  Gama  swamp'd  in  lazy  tolerance. 
When  the  man  wants  weight,  the  woman  takes  it  up, 
But  topples  down  the  scales;  but  this  is  fixt 
As  are  the  roots  of  earth  and  base  of  all ; 
Man  for  the  field  and  woman  for  the  hearth; 
Man  for  the  sword  and  for  the  needle  she: 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY. 


Man  with  the  head  and  woman  with  the  heart: 

Man  to  command  and  woman  to  obey; 

All  else  confusion.     Look  you!  the  gray  mare 

Is  ill  to  live  with,  when  her  whinny  shrills 

From  tile  to  scullery,  and  her  small  good-man 

Shrinks  in  his  arm-chair  while  the  fires  of  Hell 

Mix  with  his  hearth:  but  you — she's  yet  a  colt — 

Take,  break  her:  strongly  groom'd  and  straitly  curb'd 

She  might  not  rank  with  those  detestable 

That  let  the  bantling  scald  at  home,  and  brawl 

Their  rights  and  wrongs  like  potherbs  in  the  street. 

They  say  she's  comely;  there's  the  fairer  chance' 

/  like  her  none  the  less  for  rating  at  her! 

Besides,  the  woman  wed  is  not  as  we, 

But  suffers  change  of  frame.     A  lusty  brace 

Of  twins  may  weed  her  of  her  folly.     Boy, 

The  bearing  and  the  training  of  a  child 

Is  woman's  wisdom." 

Thus  the  hard  old  king: 
I  took  my  leave,  for  it  was  nearly  noon* 
I  pored  upon  her  letter  which  I  held, 
And  on  the  little  clause  "take  not  his  life:  " 
I  mused  on  that  wild  morning  in  the  wood, 
And  on  the  "Follow,  follow,  thou  shalt  win:  " 
I  thought  on  all  the  wrathful  king  had  said, 
And  how  the  strange  betrothment  was  to  end : 
Then  I  remember'd  that  burnt  sorcerer's  curse 
That  one  should  fight  with  shadows  and  should  fall; 
And  like  a  flash  the  weird  affection  came. 
King,  camp  and  college  turned  to  hollow  shows; 
I  seem'd  to  move  in  old  memorial  tilts, 
And  doing  battle  with  forgotten  ghosts, 
To  dream  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream: 
And  ere  I  woke  it  was  the  point  of  noon, 
The  lists  were  ready.     Empanoplied  and  plumed 
We  enter'd  in,  and  waited,  fifty  there 
Opposed  to  fifty,  till  the  trumpet  blared 
At  the  barrier  like  a  wild  horn  in  a  land 
Of  echoes,  and  a  moment,  and  once  more 
The  trumpet,  and  again :  which  the  storm 
Of  galloping  hoofs  bare  on  the  ridge  of  spears 
And  riders  front  to  front,  until  they  closed 
In  conflict  with  the  crash  of  shivering  points, 
And  thunder.     Yet  it  seem'd  a  dream :  I  dream'd 
Of  fighting.     On  his  haunches  rose  the  steed, 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET.  381 

And  into  fiery  splinters  leapt  the  lance, 

And  out  of  stricken  helmets  sprang  the  fire. 

A  noble  dream  1  what  was  it  else  I  saw? 

Part  sat  like  rocks;  part  reel'd  but  kept  their  seats; 

Part  roll'd  on  the  earth  and  rose  again  and  drew: 

Part  stumbled  mixt  with  floundering  horses.     Down 

From  those  two  bulks  at  Arac's  side,  and  down 

From  Arac's  arm,  as  from  a  giant's  flail, 

The  large  blows  rain'd,  as  here  and  everywhere 

He  rode  the  mellay,  lord  of  the  ringing  lists, 

And  all  the  plain — brand,  mace,  and  shaft,  and  shield — 

Shock'd,  like  an  iron-clanging  anvil  bang'd 

With  hammers;  till  I  thought,  can  this  be  he 

From  Gama's  dwarfish  loins?  if  this  be  so; 

The  mother  makes  us  most — and  in  my  dream 

I  glanc'd  aside,  and  saw  the  palace-front 

Alive  with  fluttering  scarfs  and  ladies'  eyes, 

And  highest,  among  the  statues,  statue-like, 

Between  a  cymbal'd  Miriam  and  a  Jael, 

With  Psyche's  babe,  was  Ida  watching  us, 

A  single  band  of  gold  about  her  hair, 

Like  a  Saint's  glory  up  in  heaven :  but  she 

No  saint — inexorable — no  tenderness — 

Too  hard,  too  cruel:  yet  she  sees  me  fight,  % 

Yea,  let  her  see  me  fall!  with  that  I  drave 

Among  the  thickest  and  bore  down  a  Prince, 

And  Cyril,  one.     Yea,  let  me  make  my  dream 

All  that  I  would.     But  that  large-moulded  man, 

His  visage  all  agrin  as  at  a  wake, 

Made  at  me  thro'  the  press,  and,  staggering  back, 

With  stroke  on  stroke  the  horse  and  horseman  came 

As  comes  a  pillar  of  electric  cloud, 

Flaying  the  roofs  and  sucking  up  the  drains, 

And  shadowing  down  the  champaign  till  it  strikes 

On  a  wood,  and  takes,  and  breaks,  and  cracks,  and  splits 

And  twists  the  grain  with  such  a  roar  that  Earth 

Reels,  and  the  herdsmen  cry ;  for  everything 

Gave  way  before  him :  only  Florian,  he 

That  loved  me  closer  than  hi>  own  right  eye, 

Thrust  in  between;  but  Arac  rode  him  down: 

And  Cyril  seeing  it,  push'd  against  the  Prince, 

With  Psyche's  color  round  his  helmet,  tough, 

Strong,  supple,  sinew-corded,  apt  at  arms; 

But  tougher,  heavier,  stronger,  he  that  smote 

And  threw  him :  last  I  spurr'd ;  I  felt  my  veins 


382 


THE  P1UNC£SS:    A  MED  LET. 


Stretch  with  fierce  heat;  a  moment  hand  to  hand, 
And  sword  to  sword,  and  horse  to  horse  we  hung, 
Till  I  struck  out  and  shouted;  the  blade  glanc'd; 
I  did  but  shear  a  feather,  and  dream  and  truth 
Flow'd  from  me;  darkness  closed  me;  and  I  fell. 


Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead; 

She  nor  swoon'd,  nor  utter'd  cry: 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

"  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 


Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
Call'd  him  worthy  to  be  loved. 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe ; 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY 


Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 
Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 

Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face; 
Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 
Set  his  child  upon  her  knee — 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears 
"  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 


VI. 


My  dream  had  never  died  or  lived  again. 
As  in  some  mystic  middle  state  I  lay; 
Seeing  I  saw  not,  hearing  not  I  heard; 
Tho',  if  I  saw  not,  yet  they  told  me  all 
So  often  that  I  speak  as  having  seen. 

For  so  it  seem'd,  or  so  they  said  to  me, 
That  all  things  grew  more  tragic  and  more  strange; 
That  when  our  side  was  vanquish'd  and  my  cause 
Forever  lost,  there  went  up  a  great  cry, 
The  Prince  is  slain.     My  father  heard  and  ran 
In  on  the  lists,  and  there  unlaced  my  casque 
And  grovell'd  on  my  body,  and  after  him 
Came  Psyche,  sorrowing  for  Aglaia. 

But  High  upon  the  palace  Ida  stood 
With  Psyche's  babe  in  arm:  there  on  the  roofs 
Like  that  great  dame  of  Lapidoth  she  Bang. 

"Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n:  the  seed 
The  little  seed  they  laugh'd  at  in  the  dark, 
Ha-  risen  and  cleft  the  soil,  and  grown  a  bulk 
Of  spanless  girth,  that  lays  on  every  side 
A  thousand  arms  and  rushes  to  the  sun. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n:  they  came: 
The  leaves  were  wet  with  women"*  tears:  they  heard 
A  noise  of  songs  they  would  not  understand: 
They  mark'd  it  with  the  red  cross  to  tiie  fall, 
And  would  have  strown  it,  and  are  fall'n  themselves. 


384 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 


"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n :  they  came, 
The  woodmen  with  their  axes:  lo  the  tree! 
But  we  will  make  it  fagots  for  the  hearth, 
And  shape  it  plank  and  beam  for  roof  and  floor, 
And  boats  and  bridges  for  the  use  of  men. 

"Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n:  they  struck; 
With  their  own  blows  they  hurt  themselves,  nor  knew 
There  dwelt  an  iron  nature  in  the  grain : 
The  glittering  axe  was  broken  in  their  arms, 
Their  arms  were  shatter'd  to  the  shoulder  blade. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  but  this  shall  grow 
A  night  of  Summer  from  the  heat,  a  breadth 
Of  Autumn,  dropping  fruits  of  power;  and  roll'd 
With  music  in  the  growing  breeze  of  Time, 
The  tops  shall  strike  from  star  to  star,  the  fangs 
Shall  move  the  stony  bases  of  the  world. 

"  And  now,  O  maids,  behold  our  sanctuary 
Is  violate,  our  laws  broken :  fear  we  not 
To  break  them  more  in  their  behoof,  whose  arms 
Champion'd  our  cause  and  won  it  with  a  day 
Blanch'd  in  our  annals,  and  perpetual  feast, 
When  dames  and  heroines  of  the  golden  year 
Shall  strip  a  hundred  hollows  bare  of  Spring, 
To  rain  an  April  of  ovation  round 
Their  statues  borne  aloft,  the  three :  but  come, 
We  will  be  liberal,  since  our  rights  are  won. 
Let  them  not  lie  in  the  tents  with  coarse  mankind, 
111  nurses ;  but  descend,  and  proffer  these 
The  brethren  of  our  blood  and  cause,  that  there 
Lie  bruis'd  and  maim'd,  the  tender  ministries 
Of  female  hands  and  hospitality." 

She  spoke,  and  with  the  babe  yet  in  her  arms, 
Descending,  burst  the  great  bronze  valves,  and  led 
A  hundred  maids  in  train  across  the  Park. 
Some  cowl'd,  and  some  bare-headed,  on  they  came, 
Their  feet  in  flowers,  her  loveliest :  by  them  went 
The  enamor'd  air  sighing,  and  on  their  curls 
From  the  high  tree  the  blossom  wavering  fell, 
And  over  them  the  tremulous  isles  of  light 
Slided,  they  moving  under  shade :  but  Blanche 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLET.  385 

At  distance  follow'd:  so  they  came:  anon 

Thro'  open  field  into  the  lists  they  wound 

Timorously;  and  as  the  leader  of  the  herd 

That  holds  a  stately  fretwork  to  the  sun, 

And  follow'd  up  hy  a  hundred  airy  does, 

Steps  with  a  tender  foot,  light  as  on  air, 

The  lovely,  lordly  creature  floated  on 

To  where  her  wounded  brethren  lay;  there  stay'd; 

Knelt  on  one  knee, — the  child  on  one, — and  prest 

Their  hands,  and  call'd  them  dear  deliverers, 

And  happy  warriors  and  immortal  names, 

And  said,  "  You  shall  not  lie  in  the  tents  but  here, 

And  nurs'd  by  those,  for  whom  you  fought,  and  serv'd 

With  female  hands  and  hospitality." 

Then,  whether  mov'd  by  this,  or  was  it  chance, 
She  past  my  way.     Up  started  from  my  side 
The  old  lion,  glaring  with  his  whelpless  eye, 
Silent;  but  when  she  saw  me  lying  stark, 
Dishelm'd  and  mute,  and  motionlessly  pale, 
Cold  ev'n  to  her,  she  sigh'd ;  and  when  she  saw 
The  haggard  father's  face  and  reverend  beard 
Of  grisly  twine,  all  dabbled  with  the  blood 
Of  his  own  son,  shudder'd  a  twitch  of  pain, 
Tortured  her  mouth,  and  o'er  her  forehead  past 
A  shadow,  and  her  hue  changed,  and  she  said: 
■  He  saved  my  life:  my  brother  slew  him  for  it." 
No  more:  at  which  the  king  in  bitter  scorn 
Drew  from  my  neck  the  painting  and  the  tress, 
And  held  them  up:  she  saw  them,  and  a  day 
Rose  from  the  distance  on  her  memory, 
When  the  good  Queen,  her  mother,  shore  the  tress 
With  kisses,  ere  the  days  of  Lady  Blanche : 
And  then  once  more  she  look'd  at  my  pale  face: 
Till  understanding  all  the  foolish  work 
Of  Fancy,  and  the  bitter  close  of  all, 
Her  iron  will  was  broken  in  her  mind; 
Her  noble  heart  was  molten  in  her  breast; 
She  bow'd,  she  set  the  child  on  the  earth ;  she  laid 
A  feeling  finger  on  my  brows,  and  presently 
"  O  Sire,"  she  said,  "  he  lives:  he  is  not  dead: 
O  let  me  have  him  with  my  brethren  here 
In  our  own  palace:  we  will  tend  on  him 
Like  one  of  these  j  if  so,  by  any  means, 


386  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY. 

To  lighten  this  great  clog  of  thanks,  that  make 
Our  progress  falter  to  the  woman's  goal." 

She  said:  but  at  the  happy  word  "  he  lives," 
My  father  stoop'd,  re-father'd  o'er  my  wounds. 
So  those  two  foes  above  my  fallen  life, 
With  brow  to  brow  like  night  and  evening  mixt 
Their  dark  and  gray,  while  Psyche  ever  stole 
A  little  nearer,  till  the  babe  that  by  us, 
Half-lapt  in  glowing  gauze  and  golden  brede, 
Lay  like  a  new  fall'n  meteor  on  the  grass, 
Uncared  for,  spied  its  mother  and  began 
A  blind  and  babbling  laughter,  and  to  dance 
Its  body,  and  reach  its  fatling  innocent  arms 
And  lazy  lingering  fingers.     She  the  appeal 
Brook'd  not,  but  clamoring  out  "  Mine — mine — not  you, 
It  is  not  yours,  but  mine:  give  me  the  child," 
Ceas'd  all  on  tremble:  piteous  was  the  cry: 
So  stood  the  unhappy  mother  open-mouth'd, 
And  turn'd  her  face  each  way:  wan  was  her  cheek 
With  hollow  watch,  her  blooming  mantle  torn, 
Red  grief  and  mother's  hunger  in  her  eye, 
And  down  dead-heavy  sank  her  curls,  and  half 
The  sacred  mother's  bosom,  panting  burst 
The  laces  toward  her  babe;  but  she  nor  cared 
Nor  knew  it,  clamoring  on,  till  Ida  heard. 
Look'd  up,  and  rising  slowly  from  me,  stood 
Erect  and  silent,  striking  with  her  glance 
The  mother,  me,  the  child ;  but  he  that  lay 
Beside  us,  Cyril,  batter'd  as  he  was, 
Trail'd  himself  up  on  one  knee;  then  he  drew 
Her  robe  to  meet  his  lips,  and  down  she  look'd 
At  the  arm'd  man  sideways,  pitying,  as  it  seem'c. 
Or  self-involv'd ;  but  when  she  learnt  his  face, 
Remembering  his  ill-omen'd  song,  arose 
Once  more  thro'  all  her  height,  and  o'er  him  grew 
Tall  as  a  figure  lengthen'd  on  the  sand 
When  the  tide  ebbs  in  sunshine,  and  he  said : 

O  fair  and  strong  and  terrible!     Lioness 
That  with  your  long  locks  play  the  Lion's  mane! 
But  Love  and  Nature,  these  are  two  more  terrible 
And  stronger.     See,  your  foot  is  on  our  necks, 
We  vanquish'd,  you  the  victor  of  your  will, 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MED  LI  1  387 

What  would  you  more?  give  her  the  child!   remain 
Orb'd  in  your  isolation:   he  is  dead, 
Or  all  as  dead:  henceforth  we  let  you  be: 
Win  you  the  hearts  of  women;  and  beware 
Lest,  where  you  seek  the  common  love  of  these, 
The  common  hate  with  the  revolving  wheel 
Should  drag  you  down,  and  some  great  Nemesis 
Break  from  a  darkened  future,  crown'd  with  tire 
And  tread  you  out  forever:  but  howso'er 
Fia'd  in  yourself,  never  in  your  own  arms 

To  hold  your  own,  deny  not  hers  to  her, 
Give  her  the  child!      ()  if,  I  gay,  yOU  keep 

One  pulse  that  heats  true  woman,  if  you  lov'd 

The  breast  that  fed  or  arm  that  dandled  you, 
Or  own  one  part  of  sense  not  flint  to  prayer, 

Give  her  the  child!  or  if  you  scorn  to  lay  it, 
Yourself,  in  hands  so  lately  claspt   with  yours, 

Or  speak  to  her,  your  dearest,  her  one  fault 

The  tenderness,  not  yours,  that  could  not  kill, 
Give  me  it;  /will  give  it  her.'' 

He  said : 
At  first  her  eye  with  slow  dilation  roll'd 
Dry  Bame,  she  listening;  after  sank  and  sank 
And,  into  mournful  twilight  mellowing,  dwelt 
Full  on  the  child;  she  took  it:  -  Pretty  hud! 
Lily  of  the  vale!  half  open'd  bell  of  the  woods! 
Sole  comfort  of  my  dark  hour,  when  a   world 
Of  traitorous  friend  and  broken  system  made- 
No  purple  in  the  distance,  mystery, 
Pledge  of  a  love  not  to  be  mine,  farewell ; 
These  men  are  hard  upon    us  as  of  old, 
We  too  must  part:   and  yet  how  fain  was  I 
To  dream  thy  cause  embrae'd  in  mine,  to  think 
I  might  be  something  to  thee,  when  I  telt 
Thy  helpless  warmth  about  mv  barren  breath 
In  the  dead  prime:  but  may  thy  mother  prove 
As  true  to  thee  as  false,  false,  false  to  nic! 

And,  if  thou  needs  must  bear  the  yoke,  I  wish  it 
Gentle  as  freedom       here  she  kiss'd  it:  then — 

"All  good  go  with  thee!    take-  it,  Sir,"  and 
Laid  the  soft  babe  in  his  hard-mailed  hands, 
Who  turn'd  half-round  to  Psyche  as  she  sprang 
To  meet  it,  with  an  eye  that  swum    in  thanks: 
Then  felt  it  sound  and  whole  from  head  to  foot, 
And  hugg'd  and  never  hugg'd  it  dose  enough, 


388  THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 

And  in  her  hunger  mouth'd  and  mumbled  it, 
And  hid  her  bosom  with  it;  after  that 
Put  on  more  calm  and  added  suppliantly: 

"We  two  were  friends:  I  go  to  mine  own  land 
Forever:  find  some  other:  as  for  me 
I  scarce  am  fit  for  your  great  plans:  yet  speak  to  me, 
Say  one  soft  word  and  let  me  part  forgiven." 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  rapt  upon  the  child. 
Then  Arac.     "  Ida: — 'sdeath!  you  blame  the  man; 
You  wrong  yourselves — the  woman  is  so  hard 
Upon  the  woman.     Come,  a  grace  to  me! 
I  am  your  warrior;  I  and  mine  have  fought 
Your  battle;  kiss  her;  take  her  hand,  she  weeps: 
'Sdeath!  I  would  sooner  fight  thrice  o'er  than  see  it." 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  gazing  on  the  ground, 
And  reddening  in  the  furrows  of  his  chin, 
And  moved  beyond  his  custom,  Gama  said: 

"  I've  heard  that  there  is  iron  in  the  blood, 
And  I  believe  it.     Not  one  word?  not  one? 
Whence  drew  you  this  steel  temper?  not  from  me, 
Not  from  your  mother,  now  a  saint  with  saints. 
She  said  you  had  a  heart — I  heard  her  say  it — 
'  Our  Ida  has  a  heart ' — just  ere  she  died — 
1  But  see  that  some  one  with  authority 
Be  near  her  still,'  and  I — I  sought  for  one — 
All  people  said  she  had  authority — 
The  Lady  Blanche:  much  profit!     Not  one  word; 
No!  tho'  your  father  sues:  see  how  you  stand 
Stiff  as  Lot's  wife,  and  all  the  good  knights  maim'd, 
I  trust  that  there  is  no  one  hurt  to  death, 
For  your  wild  whim :  and  was  it  then  for  this, 
Was  it  for  this  we  gave  our  palace  up, 
Where  we  withdrew  from  summer  heats  and  state, 
And  had  our  wine  and  chess  beneath  the  planes, 
And  many  a  pleasant  hour  with  her  that's  gone, 
Ere  you  were  born  to  vex  us?     Is  it  kind? 
Speak  to  her  I  say :  is  this  the  son  of  whom 
When  first  she  came,  all  flush'd  you  said  to  me  - 
Now  had  you  got  a  friend  of  your  own  age, 
Now  could  you  share  your  thought :  now  should  men  see 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


Two  women  faster  welded  in  one  love 

Than  pairs  of  wedlock ;  she  you  walk  d  with,  she 

You  talk'd  with,  whole  nights  long,  up  in  the  tower, 

Of  sine  and  arc,  spheroid  and  azimuth 

And  right  ascension.  Heaven  knows  what;  and  now 

A  word,  but  one,  one  little  kindly  word, 

Not  one  to  spare  her:  out  upon  you,  flint! 

You  love  nor  her,  nor  me,  nor  any:  nay 

You  shame  your  mother's  judgment  too.     Not  one? 

You  will  not?  well — no  heart  have  you,  or  such 

As  fancies  like  the  vermin  in  a  nut 

Have  fretted  all  to  dust  and  bitterness." 

So  said  the  small  king  moved  beyond  his  wont. 

• 
But  Ida  stood  nor  spoke,  drain'd  of  her  force 
By  many  a  varying  influence  and  so  long. 
Down  thro'  her  limbs  a  drooping  languor  wept: 
Her  head  a  little  bent,  and  on  her  mouth 
A  doubtful  smile  dwelt  like  a  clouded  moon 
In  a  still  water:  then  brake  out  my  sire 
Lifting  his  grim  head  from  my  wounds.     "  O  you, 
Woman,  whom  we  thought  woman  even  now, 
And  were  half  foolM  to  let  you  tend  our  son, 
Because  he  might  have  wish'd  it — but  we  see 
The  accomplice  of  your  madness  unforgiven, 
And  think  that  you  might  mix  his  draught  with  death 
When  your  skies  change  again:  the  rougher  hand 
Is  safer:  on  to  the  tents:  take  up  the  Prince." 

He  rose,  and  while  each  ear  was  prick'd  to  attend 
A  tempest,  thro'  the  cloud  that  dimm'd  her  broke 
A  genial  warmth  and  light  once  more,  and  shone 
Thro'  glittering  drops  on  her  sad  friend. 

"  Come  hither, 

0  Psyche,"  she  cried  out,  "  embrace  me,  come, 
Quick  while  I  melt;  make  reconcilement  sure 
With  one  that  cannot  keep  her  mind  an  hour: 
Come  to  the  hollow  heart  they  slander  so! 
Ki-s  and  be  friends,  like  children  being  chid! 

/  seem  no  more:  /want  forgiveness  too: 

1  should  have  had  to  do  with  none  but  maids, 
That  have  no  links  with  men.     Ah  false  but  dear, 
Dear  traitor,  too  much  loved,  why? — why?     Yet  see, 
Before  these  kings  we  embrace  you  yet  once  more 


390  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 

With  all  forgiveness,  all  oblivion, 
And  trust,  not  love,  you  less. 

And  now,  O  Sire, 
Grant  me  your  son,  to  nurse,  to  wait  upon  him, 
Like  mine  own  brother.      For  my  debt  to  him, 
This  nightmare  weight  of  gratitude,  I  know  it; 
Taunt  me  no  more:  yourself  and  yours  shall  have 
Free  adit;  we  will  scatter  all  our  maids 
Till  happier  times  each  to  her  proper  hearth; 
What  use  to  keep  them  here — now?  grant  my  prayer 
Help,  father,  brother,  help:  speak  to  the  king: 
Thaw  this  male  nature  to  some  touch  of  that 
Which  kills  me  with  myself  and  drags  me  down 
From  my  fixt  height  to  mob  me  up  with  all 
The  soft  and  milky  rabble  of  womankind, 
Poor  weakling  ev'n  as  they  are." 

Passionate  tears 
Followed:  the  king  replied  not:  Cyril  said: 
"  Your  brother,  Lady, — Florian, — ask  for  him 
Of  3'our  great  head — for  he  is  wounded  too — 
That  you  may  tend  upon  him  with  the  Prince." 
"  Ay  so,"  said  Ida  with  a  bitter  smile, 
"  Our  laws  are  broken :  let  him  enter  too." 
Then  Violet,  she  that  sang  the  mournful  song, 
And  had  a  cousin  tumbled  on  the  plain, 
Petition'd  too  for  him.     "  Ay  so,"  she  said, 
"  I  stagger  in  the  stream :  I  cannot  keep 
My  heart  an  eddy  from  the  brawling  hour: 
We  break  our  laws  with  ease,  but  let  °.t  be." 
"  Ay  so,"  said  Blanche:  "  Amaz'd  am  I  to  hear 
Your  Highness:  but  your  Highness  breaks  with  ease 
The  law  your  Highness  did  not  make:  'twas  I. 
I  had  been  wedded  wife,  I  knew  mankind, 
And  blocked  them  out;  but  these  men  came  to  woo 
Your  Highness — verilv  I  think  to  win." 


So  she,  and  turn'd  askance  a  wintry  eye: 
But  Ida,  with  a  voice,  that  like  a  bell 
Toll'd  by  an  earthquake  in  a  trembling  tower, 
Rang  ruin,  answer'd  full  of  grief  and  scorn. 

"Fling  our  doors  wide!  all,  all,  not  one,  but  a] 
Not  only  he,  but  by  my  mother's  soul, 
Whatever  man  lies  wounded,  friend  or  foe, 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLET.  391 

Shall  enter,  if  he  will.     Let  our  girls  flit, 
Till  the  storm  die!  but  had  you  stood  by  us, 
The  roar  that  breaks  the  Pharos  from  his  base 
Had  left  us  rock.     She  fain  would  sting  us  too 
But  shall  not.      Pass,  and  mingle  with  your  likes. 
We  brook  no  further  insult,  hut  are  gone." 

She  turn'd;  the  very  nape  of  her  white  neck 
Was  rosed  with  indignation;  but  the  Prince 
Her  brother  came;  the  king  her  father  charm'd 
Her  wounded  soul  with  words:  nor  did   mine  own 
Refuse  her  proffer,  lastly  gavi  his  hand. 

Then  us  they  lifted  up,  dei'd  weights,  and  bare 
Straight  to  the  doors:  to  them  the  doors  gave  way 
Groaning,  and  in  the  Vestal  entry  shriek'd 
The  virgin  marble  under  iron  heels: 
And  on  they  moved  and  gain'd  the  hall,  and  there 
Rested:  but  great  the  crush  was,  and  each  base, 
To  left  and  right,  of  those  tall  columns  drown'd 
In  silken  fluctuation  and  the  swarm 
Of  female  whisperers:  at  the  further  end 
Was  Ida  by  the  throne,  the  two  great  cats  , 

Close  by  her,  like  supporters  on  a  shield, 
Bow-back'd  with  fear:  but  in  the  centre  stood 
The  common  men  with  rolling  eyes;  amaz'd 
They  glared  upon  the  women,  and  aghast 
The  women  stared  at  these,  all  silent,  save, 
When  armor  clash'd  or  jingled,  while  the  day, 
Descending,  struck  athwart  the  hall  and  shot 
A  flying  splendor  out  of  brass  and  steel, 
That  o'er  the  statues  leapt  from  head  to  head, 
Now  fired  an  angry  Pallas  on  the  helm, 
Now  set  a  wrathful  Dian's  moon  on  flame, 
And  now  and  then  an  echo  started  up, 
And  shuddering  fled  from  room  to  room,  and  died 
Of  fright  in  far  apartments. 

Then  the  voice 
Of  Ida  sounded,  issuing  ordinance: 
And  me  they  bore  up  the  broad  stairs,  and  thro' 
The  long-laid  galleries  past  a  hundred  doors 
To  one  deep  chamber  shut  from  sound,  and  due 
To  languid  limbs  and  sickness;  left  me  in  it; 
And  others  otherwhere  they  laid;  and  all 


392  THE  PRINCESS:  A  MED  LET. 

That  afternoon  a  sound  arose  of  hoof  ' 
And  chariot,  many  a  maiden  passing  home 
Till  happier  times;  but  some  were  left  of  those 
Held  sagest,  and  the  great  lords  out  and  in, 
From  those  two  hosts  that  lay  beside  the  walls, 
Walk'd  at  their  will,  and  everything  changed. 


Ask  me  no  more :  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea ; 
The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and  take  the  shape, 
'With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape; 

But,  O  too  fond,  when  have  I  answer'd  thee? 
Ask  me  no  more. 


Ask  me  no  more:  what  answer  should  I  give? 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye : 
Yet,  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee  die! 

Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee  live ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 


Ask  me  no  more:  thy  fate  and  mine  are  seal'd: 
I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in  vain : 
Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main : 

No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 


VII. 


So  was  their  sanctuary  violated, 

So  their  fair  college  turn'd  to  hospital ; 

At  first  with  all  confusion:  by  and  by 

Sweet  order  lived  again  with  other  laws: 

A  kindlier  influence  reign'd;  and  everywhere 

Low  voices  with  the  ministering  hand 

Hung  round  the  sick:  the  maidens  came,  they  talk'd, 

They  sang,  they  read:  till  she  not  fair,  began 

To  gather  light,  and  she  that  was,  became 

Her  former  beauty  treble;  and  to  and  fro 

With  books,  with  flowers,  with  Angel  offices, 

Like  creatures  native  unto  gracious  act, 

And  in  their  own  clear  element,  they  moved. 

But  sadness  on  the  soul  of  Ida  fell, 
And  hatred  of  her  weakness,  blent  with'  shame. 
Old  studies  fail'd ;  seldom  she  spoke ;  but  oft 
Clomb  to  the  roofs,  and  gazed  alone  for  hours 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET.  393 

On  that  disastrous  leaguer,  swarms  of  men 
Darkening  her  female  field ;  void  was  her  use, 
And  she  as  one  that  climbs  a  peak  to  gaze 
O'er  land  and  main,  and  sees  a  great  black  cloud 
Drag  inward  from  the  deeps,  a  wall  of  night, 
Blot  out  the  slope  of  sea  from  verge  to  shore, 
And  suck  the  blinding  splendor  from  the  sand, 
And  quenching  lake  by  lake  and  tarn  by  tarn 
Expunge  the  world:  so  fared  she  gazing  there; 
So  blacken'd  all  her  world  in  secret,  blank 
And  waste  it  seem'd  and  vain;  till  down  she  came, 
And  found  fair  peace  once  more  among  the  sick. 

And  twilight  dawn'd;  and  morn  by  morn  the  lark 
Shot  up  and  shrill'd  in  flickering  gyres,  but  I 
Lay  silent  in  the  muffled  cage  of  life: 
And  twilight  gloom'd;  and  broader  grown  the  bowers 
Drew  the  great  night  into  themselves,  and  Heaven, 
Star  after  star,  arose  and  fell;  but  I, 
Deeper  than  those  weird  doubts  could  reach  me,  lay 
Quite  sunder'd  from  the  moving  Universe, 
Nor  knew  what  eye  was  on  me,  nor  the  hand 
That  nurs'd  me,  more  than  infants  in  their  sleep. 

But  Psyche  tended  Florian :  with  her  oft 
Melissa  came;  for  Blanche  had  gone,  but  left 
Her  child  among  us,  willing  she  should  keep 
Court-favor:  here  and  there  the  small  bright  head, 
A  light  of  healing,  glanc'd  about  the  couch, 
Or  thro'  the  parted  silks  the  tender  face 
Peep'd,  shining  in  upon  the  wounded  man 
With  blush  and  smile,  a  medicine  in  themselves 
To  wile  the  length  from  languorous  hours,  and  draw 
The  sting  from  pain;  nor  seem'd  it  strange  that  soon 
He  rose  up  whole,  and  those  fair  charitR- 
Join'd  at  her  side;  nor  stranger  seem'd  that  hearts 
So  enjoy 'd,  so  employ 'd,  should  close  in  love, 
Than  when  two  dew  drops  on  the  petal  shake 
To  the  same  sweet  air,  and  tremble  deeper  down, 
And  slip  at  once  all-fragrant  into  one. 

Less  prosperously  the  second  suit  obtain'd 
At  first  with  Psyche.     Not  though  Blanche  had  sworn 
That  after  that  dark  night  among  the  fields, 


394  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY. 


She  needs  must  wed  him  for  her  own  good  name; 
Not  tho'  he  built  upon  the  babe  restored; 
Nor  tho'  she  liked  him,  yielded  she,  but  fear'd 
To  incense  the  Head  once  more ;  till  on  a  day 
When  Cyril  pleaded,  Ida  came  behind 
Seen  but  of  Psyche :  on  her  foot  she  hung 
A  moment,  and  she  heard,  at  which  her  face 
A  little  flush'd,  and  she  past  on :  but  each 
Assum'd  from  thence  a  half-consent  involv'd 
In  stillness,  plighted  troth,  and  were  at  peace. 

Not  only  these:  Love  in  the  sacred  halls 
Held  carnival  at  will,  and  flying  struck 
With  showers  of  random  sweet  on  maid  and  man. 
Nor  did  her  father  cease  to  press  my  claim, 
Nor  did  mine  own  now  reconciled ;  nor  yet 
Did  those  twin  brothers,  risen  again  and  whole; 
Nor  Arac,  satiate  with  his  victory. 

But  I  lay  still,  and  with  me  oft  she  sat: 
Then  came  a  change;  for  sometimes  I  would  catch 
Her  hand  in  wild  delirium,  gripe  it  hard, 
And  fling  it  like  a  viper  off,  and  shriek 
"You  are  not  Ida;"  clasp  it  once  again, 
And  call  her  Ida,  tho'  I  knew  her  not,. 
And  call  her  sweet,  as  if  in  irony, 
And  call  her  hard  and  cold  which  seem'd  a  truth: 
And  still  she  fear'd  that  I  should  lose  my  mind, 
And  often  she  believ'd  that  I  should  die: 
Till  out  of  long  frustration  of  her  care, 
And  pensive  tendance  in  the  all-weary  noons, 
And  watches  in  the  dead,  the  dark,  when  clocks 
Throbb'd  thunder  thro'  the  palace  floors,  or  call'd 
On  flying  Time  from  all  their  silver  tongues — 
And  out  of  memories  of  her  kindlier  days, 
And  sidelong  glances  at  my  father's  grief, 
And  at  the  happy  lovers  heart  in  heart — 
And  out  of  hauntings  of  my  spoken  love, 
And  lonely  listenings  to  my  mutter'd  dream, 
And  often  feeling  of  the  helpless  hands, 
And  wordless  broodings  on  the  wasted  cheek — 
From  all  a  closer  interest  flourish'd  up, 
Tenderness  touch  by  touch,  and  last,  to  these, 
I^ove,  like  an  Alpine  harebell  hung  with  tears. 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY.  395 

By  some  cold  morning  glacier;  frail  at  first 
And  feeble,  all  unconscious  of  itself, 
But  such  as  gather'd  color  day  by  day. 

Last  I  woke  sane,  but  wellnigh  close  to  death 
For  weakness:  it  was  evening:  silent  light 
Slept  on  the  painted  walls,  wherein  were  wrought 
Two  grand  designs :  for  on  one  side  arose 
The  women  up  in  wild  revolt,  and  storm'd 
At  the  Oppian  law.     Titanic  shapes,  they  cramm'd 
The  forum,  and  half-crush'd  among  the  rest 
A  dwarf  like  Cato  cower'd.     On  the  other  side 
Hortensia  spoke  against  the  tax ;  behind, 
A  train  of  dames:  by  axe  and  eagle  sat, 
With  all  their  foreheads  drawn  in  Roman  scowls 
And  half  the  wolf's-milk  curdled  in  their  veins, 
The  fierce  triumvirs:  and  before  them  paused 
Hortensia,  pleading :  angry  was  her  face. 

I  saw  the  forms:  I  knew  not  where  I  was: 
They  did  but  seem  as  hollow  shows;  nor  more 
Sweet  Ida:  palm  to  palm  she  sat:  the  dew 
Dwelt  in  her  eyes,  and  softer  all  her  shape 
And  rounder  show'd :  I  moved :  I  sigh'd :  a  touch 
Came  round  my  wrist,  and  tears  upon  my  hand: 
Then  all  for  languor  and  self-pity  ran 
Mine  down  my  face,  and  with  what  life  I  had, 
And  like  a  flower  that  cannot  all  unfold, 
So  drench'd  it  is  with  tempest,  to  the  sun, 
Yet,  as  it  may,  turns  toward  him,  I  on  her 
Fixt  my  faint  eyes,  and  utter'd  whisperingly : 

"  If  you  be,  what  I  think  you,  some  sweet  dream, 
I  would  but  ask  you  to  fulfil  yourself: 
But  if  you  be  that  Ida  whom  I  knew, 
I  ask  you  nothing:  only,  if  a  dream, 
Sweet  dream,  be  perfect.     I  shall  die  to-night. 
Stoop  down  and  seem  to  kiss  me  ere  I  die." 

I  could  no  more,  but  lay  like  one  in  trance, 
That  hears  his  burial  talk'd  of  by  his  friends, 
And  cannot  speak,  nor  move,  nor  make  one  sign, 
But  lies  and  dreads  his  doom.     She  turn'd;  she  paue'd; 
She  stoop'd ;  and  out  of  languor  leapt  a  cry ; 


396  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 

Leapt  fiery  Passion  from  the  brinks  of  death: 
And  I  believ'd  that  in  the  living  world 
My  spirit  closed  with  Ida's  at  the  lips; 
Till  back  I  fell,  and  from  mine  arms  she  rose 
Glowing  all  over  noble  shame;  and  all 
Her  falser  self  slipt  from  her  like  a  robe, 
And  left  her  woman,  lovelier  in  her  mood 
Than  in  her  mould  that  other,  when  she  came 
From  barren  deeps  to  conquer  all  with  love; 
And  down  the  streaming  crystal  dropt;  and  she 
Far-fleeted  by  the  purple  island-sides, 
Naked,  a  double  light  in  air  and  wave, 
To  meet  her  Graces,  where  they  deck'd  her  out 
For  worship  without  end;  nor  end  of  mine, 
Stateliest,  for  thee!  but  mute  she  glided  forth, 
Nor  glanc'd  behind  her,  and  I  sank  and  slept, 
Fill'd  thro'  and  thro'  with  Love,  a  happy  sleep. 

Deep  in  the  night  I  woke:  she,  near  me,  held 
A  volume  of  the  Poets  of  her  land : 
There  to  herself,  all  in  low  tones,  she  read. 

"Now  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now  the  white; 
Nor  waves  the  cypress  in  the  palace  walk; 
Nor  winks  the  gold  fin  in  the  porphyry  font: 
The  firefly  wakens:  waken  thou  with  me. 

"  Now  droops  the  milkwhite  peacock  like  a  ghost, 
And  like  a  ghost  she  glimmers  on  to  me. 

"  Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danae  to  the  stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

"  Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on,  and  leaves 
A  shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  in  me. 

-* 

"  Now  folds  the  lily  all  her  sweetness  up. 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake: 
So  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,  and  slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me." 

I  heard  her  turn  the  page;  she  found  a  small 
Sweet  Idyl,  and  once  more,  as  low,  she  read: 


THE  PRJNi  l  v 


l   MEDLBT. 


397 


wmsm 


"Comedown,  O  maid,  from  yonder  mountain  height: 
What  pleasure  lives  in  height  (the  shepherd  MUlg) 
In  height  and  cold,  the  splendor  of  the  hills? 
But  cease  to  move  so  near  the  Heavens,  and  cease 
To  glide  a  sunbeam  by  the  blasted   Pine, 
To  sit  a  star  upon  the  sparkling  spire; 
And  come,  for  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come, 
For  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come  thou  down 
And  find  him;  by  the  happy  threshold,  he, 
Or  hand  in  hand  with  Plenty  in  the  maize, 
Or  red  with  spirted  purple  of  the  vat-. 
Or  foxlike  in  the  vine;  nor  cares  to  walk 
With  Death  and  Morning  on  the  Silver  Horns, 
Nor  wilt  thou  snare  him  in  the  white  ravine, 
Nor  find  him  dropt  upon  the  firths  of  ice, 
That  huddling  slant  in  furrow -cloven  falls 
To  roll  the  torrent  out  of  dusky  do- 
But  follow ;  let  the  current  dance  thee  down 
To  find  him  in  the  valley;  let  the  wild 


398  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 

Lean-headed  eagles  yelp  alone,  and  leave 

The  monstrous  ledges  there  to  slope,  and  spill 

Their  thousand  wreaths  of  dangling  water-smoke, 

That  like  a  broken  purpose,  waste  in  air: 

So  waste  not  thou ;  but  come ;  for  all  the  vales 

Await  thee;  azure  pillars  of  the  hearth 

Arise  to  thee;  the  children  call,  and  I 

Thy  shepherd  pipe,  and  sweet  is  every  sound, . 

Sweeter  thy  voice,  but  every  sound  is  sweet; 

Myriads  of  rivulets  hurrying  thro'  the  lawn, 

The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms. 

And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees." 

So  she  low-toned;  while  with  shut  eyes  I  lay 
Listening;  then  look'd.      Pale  was  the  perfect  face; 
The  bosom  with  long  sighs  labor'd;  and   meek 
Seem'd  the  full  lips,  and  mild  the  luminous  eyes, 
And  the  voice  trembled  and  the  hand.      She  sail 
Brokenly,  that  she  knew  it,  she  had  fail'd 
In  sweet  humility;  had  fail'd  in  all; 
That  all  her  labor  was  but  as  a  block 
Left  in  the  quarry ;  but  she  still  were  loath, 
She  still  were  loath  to  yield  herself  to  one, 
That  wholly  scorn'd  to  help  their  equal  rights 
Against  the  sons  of  men,  and  barbarous  laws. 
She  pray'd  me  not  to  judge  their  cause  from  her 
That  wrong'd  it,  sought  far  less  for  truth  than  powei 
In  knowledge:  something  wild  within  her  breast, 
A  greater  than  all  knowledge,  beat  her  down, 
And  she  had  nurs'd  me  there  from  week  to  week: 
Much  had  she  learnt  in  little  time.     In  part 
It  was  ill  counsel  that  misled  the  girl 
To  vex  true  hearts :  yet  was  she  but  a  girl — 
"  Ah  fool,  and  made  myself  a  Queen  of  farce! 
When  comes  another  such!  never,  I  think 
Till  the  sun  drop  dead  from  the  signs." 

Her  voice 
Choked,  and  her  forehead  sank  upon  her  hands, 
And  her  great  heart  thro'  all  the  faultful  Past 
Went  sorrowing  in  a  pause  I  dared  not  break; 
Till  notice  of  a  change  in  the  dark  world 
Was  lisped  about  the  acacias,  and  a  bird, 
That  early  woke  to  feed  her  little  ones, 
Sent  from  a  dewy  breast  a  cry  for  light: 
She  moved,  and  at  her  feet  the  volume  fell. 


\ 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MI-IDLE)'.  399 


"  Blame  not  thyself  too  much,"  I  said,  "nor  blame 
Too  much  the  sons  of  men  and  barbarous  laws; 
These  were  the  rough  ways  of  the  world  till  now. 
IK-nccforth  thou  hast  a  helper,  me,  that  know 
The  woman's  cause  is  man's:  they  rise  or  sink 
Together,  dwarfd  or  godlike,  bond  or  free: 
For  she  that  out  of  Lethe  scales  with  man 
The  shining  steps  of  nature,  shares   with  man 
His  nights,  his  days,  mows  with  htm  to  one  goal, 
Stays  all  the  fair  young  planet  in  her  hands    - 

If  she  be  small,  slight-natured,  miserable, 

How  shall  men  grow?  hut  work  no  more  alone! 

Our  place  is  much:  as  far  as  in  us  lies 

We  two  will  serve  them  both  in  aiding  her — 

Will  clear  away  the  parasitic   forms 

That  seem  to  keep  her  up  but  drag  her  down — 

Will  leave  her  space  to  burgeon  out  of  all 

Within  her — let  her  make  herself  her  own 

To  give  or  keep,  to  live  and  learn  and  he 

All  that  not  harms  distinctive  womanhood: 

For  woman  is  not  undevelopt   man, 

But  diverse:  could  we  make  her  as  the  man, 

Sweet  Love  were  slain:  his  dearest  bond  is  this, 

Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 

Vet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they  grow; 

The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of  man; 

He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral  height, 

Nor  lose  the  wrestling  thews  th.it  throw  the  world; 
She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  childward  can-. 
Nor  lose  the  childlike  in  the  larger  mind; 

Till  at  the  last  she  set   herself  tO  man. 

Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words; 

And  SO  these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of  Time, 

Sit  side  by  side,  full-sir.nm'd  in  all  their  powers, 

Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 

.-<  Il-ieveicnt  each  and  reverencing  each, 

Distinct  in  individualities, 

But  like  each  other  ev'u  as  those  who  low. 

Then  comes  the  statelier  Eden  back  to  men: 
Then  reign  the  vrorld'a  great  bridals,  chaste  and  calm 
Then  springs  the  crowning  race  of  humankind. 

May  these  things  I 

Sighing  she  spoke,  M  I  fear 
They  will  not." 


400  THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 

"  Dear,  but  let  us  type  them  now 
In  our  own  lives,  and  this  proud  watchword  rest 
Of  equal;  seeing  either  sex  alone 
Is  half  itself,  and  in  true  marriage  lies 
Nor  equal,  nor  unequal :  each  fulfils 
t  Defect  in  each,  and  always  thought  in  thought, 

Purpose  in  purpose,  will  in  will,  they  grow, 
The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal, 
The  two-cell'd  heart  .beating,  with  one  full  stroke, 
Life." 

And  again  sighing  she  spoke :  "  A  dream 
That  once  was  mine!  what  woman  taught  you  this?" 

"  Alone,"  I  said, "  from  earlier  than  I  know, 
Immers'd  in  rich  foreshadowings  of  the  world, 
I  loved  the  woman :  he,  that  doth  not,  lives 
A  drowning  life,  besotted  in  sweet  self, 
Or  pines  in  sad  experience  worse  than  death, 
Or  keeps  his  wing'd  affections  dipt  with  crime: 
Yet  was  there  one  thro'  whom  I  loved  her,  one 
Not  learn'd,  save  in  gracious  household  ways, 
Not  perfect,  nay,  but  full  of  tender  wants 
No  Angel,  but  a  dearer  being,  all  dipt 
In  Angel  instincts,  breathing  Paradise, 
Interpreter  between  the  Gods  and  men, 
Who  look'd  all  native  to  her  place,  and  yet 
On  tiptoe  seem'd  to  touch  upon  a  sphere 
Too  gross  to  tread,  and  all  male  minds  perforce 
Sway'd  to  her  from  their  orbits  as  they  moved, 
And  girdled  her  with  music.     Happy  he 
With  such  a  mother!  faith  in  womankind 
Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all  things  high 
Comes  easy  to  him,  and  tho'  he  trip  and  fall 
He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clay." 

«  But  I," 
Said  Ida,  tremulously,  "  so  all  unlike — 
It  seems  you  love  to  cheat  yourself  with  words: 
This  mother  is  your  model.     I  have  heard 
Of  your  strange  doubts:  they  well  might  be:  I  seem 
A  mockery  to  my  own  self.     Never,  Prince; 
»  You  cannot  love  me." 

"  Nay  but  thee,"  I  said 
"  From  yearlong  poring  on  thy  pictur'd  eyes, 
Ere  seen  I  loved,  and  loved  thee  seen,  and  saw 


"  A  bird 
That  early  woke  to  feed  her  little  ones." 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET.  401 

Thee  woman  thro'  the  crust  of  iron  moods 

That  mask'd  thee  from  men's  reverence  up,  and  forc'd 

Sweet  love  on  pranks  of  saucy  boyhood:  now, 

Giv'n  back  to  life,  to  life  indeed,  thro'  thee, 

Indeed  I  love :  the  new  day  comes,  the  light 

Dearer  for  night,  as  dearer  thou  for  faults 

Lived  over:  lift  thine  eyes;  my  doubts  are  dead, 

My  haunting  sense  of  hollow  shows:  the  change, 

This  truthful  change  in  thee  has  kill'd  it.     Dear, 

Look  up,  and  let  thy  nature  strike  on  mine, 

Like  yonder  morning  on  the  blind  half- world; 

Approach  and  fear  not;  breathe  upon  my  brows; 

In  that  fine  air  I  tremble,  all  the  past 

Melts  mist-like  into  this  bright  hour,  and  this 

Is  morn  to  more,  and  all  the  rich  to-come 

Reels,  as  the  golden  Autumn  woodland  reels 

Athwart  the  smoke  of  burning  weeds.     Forgive  me, 

I  waste  my  heart  in  signs:  let  be.     My  bride, 

My  wife,  my  life.     O,  we  will  walk  this  world, 

Yoked  in  all  exercise  of  noble  end. 

And  so  thro'  those  dark  gates  across  the  wild 

That  no  man  knows.     Indeed  I  love  thee:  come, 

Yield  thyself  up:  my  hopes  and  thine  are  one: 

Accomplish  thou  my  manhood  and  thyself; 

Lay  thy  sweet  hands  in  mine  and  trust  to  me." 


CONCLUSION. 


So  closed  our  tale,  of  which  I  give  you  all 
The  random  scheme  as  wildly  as  it  rose: 
The  words  are  mostly  mine;  for  when  we  ceas'd 
There  came  a  minute's  pause,  and  Walter  said, 
"  1  wish  she  had  not  yielded! "  then  to  me, 
"  What,  if  you  drest  it  up  poetically! " 
So  pray'd  the  men,  the  women:  I  gave  assent: 
Yet  how  to  bind  the  scattered  scheme  of  M  vea 
Together  in  one  sheaf?     What  style  could  suit? 
The  men  requir'd  that  I  should  give  throughout 
The  sort  of  mock-heroic  gigantesque, 
With  which  we  banter'd  little  Lilia  first: 
The  women — and  perhaps  they  felt  their  power, 
For  something  in  the  ballads  which  they  sang, 


402  THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 

Or  in  their  silent  influence  as  they  sat, 

Had  ever  seem'd  to  wrestle  with  burlesque, 

And  drove  us,  last,  to  quite  a  solemn  close — 

They  hated  banter,  wish'd  for  something  real, 

A  gallant  fight,  a  noble  princess — why 

Not  make  her  true-heroic — true-sublime? 

Or  all,  they  said,  as  earnest  as  the  close? 

Which  yet  with  such  a  framework  scarce  could  be. 

Then  rose  a  little  feud  betwixt  the  two, 

Betwixt  the  mockers  and  the  realists; 

And  I,  betwixt  them  both,  to  please  them  both, 

And  yet  to  give  the  story  as  it  rose, 

I  moved  as  in  a  strange  diagonal, 

And  maybe  neither  pleas'd  myself  nor  them. 

But  Lilia  pleas'd  me,  for  she  took  no  part 
In  our  dispute:  the  sequel  of  the  tale 
Had  touch'd  her;  and  she  sat,  she  pluck'd  the  grass, 
She  flung  it  from  her,  thinking:  last,  she  fixt 
A  showery  glance  upon  her  aunt,  and  said, 
"You — tell  us  what  we  are"  who  might  have  told, 
For  she  was  cramm'd  with  theories  out  of  books, 
But  that  there  rose  a  shout ;  the  gates  were  close*. 
At  sunset,  and  the  crowd  were  swarming  now, 
To  take  their  leave,  about  the  garden  rails. 

So  I  and  some  went  out  to  these :  we  climb'd 
The  slope  to  Vivian-place,  and  turning  saw 
The  happy  valleys,  half  in  light,  and  half 
Far-shadowing  from  the  west,  a  land  of  peace; 
Gray  halls  alone  among  the  massive  groves; 
Trim  hamlets;  here  and  there  a  rustic  tower 
Half-lost  in  belts  of  hop  and  breadths  of  wheat; 
The  shimmering  glimpses  of  a  stream;  the  seas; 
A  red  sail,  or  a  white;  and  far  beyond, 
Imagin'd  more  than  seen,  the  skirts  of  France. 

"  Look  there,  a  garden !  "  said  my  college  friend, 
The  Tory  member's  elder  son,  "  and  there! 
God  bless  the  narrow  sea  which  keeps  her  off, 
And  keeps  our  Britain,  whole  within  herself, 
A  nation  yet,  the  rulers  and  the  ruled — 
Some  sense  of  duty,  something  of  a  faith, 
Some  reverence  for  the  laws  ourselves  have  made, 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MEDLEY.  403 

Some  patient  force  to  change  them  when  we  will, 
Some  civic  manhood  firm  against  the  crowd — 
But  yonder,  whiff!  there  comes  a  sodden  heat, 
The  gravest  citizen  seems  to  lose  his  head, 
The  kin;_r  IS  scared,  the  soldier  will  not  fight, 
The  little  boy  begins  to  shoot  and  stab, 
A  kingdom  topples  over  with  a  shriek 
Like  an  old  woman,  and  down  rolls  the  world 
In  mock  heroics  stranger  than  our  own; 

lis,  republics,  revolutions,  most 
No  graver  than  a  school-boy's  barring  out: 
Too  comic  for  the  solemn  things  they  ;t 
Too  solemn  for  the  comic  touches  in  them, 
Like  our  wild  Princess  with  as  wise  a  dream 
As  some  of  theirs — God  bless  the  narrow  seas! 
I  wish  they  were  a  whole  Atlantic  broad." 

u  1  lave  patience,"   I  replied,  M  ourselves  are  full 
Of  social  wrong;  and  maybe  wildest  dreams 
An   hut  the  needful  preludes  of  the  truth: 
For  me,  the  genial  day,  the  happy  crowd, 
The  sport  half-seience,  till  me  with  a  faith. 
This  fine  old  world  of  ours  is  hut  a  child 
Yet  in  the  go-cart.     Patience]     Give-  it  time 
To  learn  its  limbs:   there  is  a  hand  that  guides." 

In  such  discourse  we  gain'd  the  garden  rails, 
And  there  we  saw  Sir  Walter  where  he  stood, 
Before-  a  tower  of  crimson  holly-oaka, 

Among  sj\   boys,  he. id  under  head,  and  loolt'd 

No  little  Illy-handed  Baronet 

A  great  broad-shoulder'd  genial  Englishman, 

A  lord  of  fat  prize-oxen  and  of  thai 

A  raiser  of  huge  melons  and  of  pine, 

A  patron  of  some  thirty  chant 

A  pamphleteer  on  guano  and  on  <;rain, 

A  quarter-sessions  chairman,  abler  none; 

Fait-hairM  and    redder  than  a  windy  morn; 

Now  shaking  hands  with  him,  now  him,  of  those 

That  stood  the  nearest — now  addrcssM  to  speech — 

Who  spoke  few  words  and  pithy,  such  as  cl< 

Welcome,  farewell,  and  welcome   for  the  year 

To  follow:  a  shout  rose  again,  and  made 

The  long  line  of  the  approaching  rookery  swerve 


404 


THE  PRINCESS:    A  MED  LET. 


From  the  elms,  and  shook  the  branches  of  the  deer 
From  slope  to  slope  thro'  distant  ferns,  and  rang 
Beyond  the  bourn  of  sunset;  oh!  a  shout 
More  joyful  than  the  city-roar  that  hails 
Premier  or  king !     Why  should  not  these  great  Sirs 
Give  up  their  parks  some  dozen  times  a  year 
To  let  the  people  breathe  ?     So  thrice  they  cried, 
I  likewise,  and  in  groups  they  stream'd  away. 

But  we  went  back  to  the  Abbey,  and  sat  on, 
So  much  the  gathering  darkness  charm'd :  we  sat 
But  spoke  not,  rapt  in  nameless  reverie, 


Perchance  upon  the  future  man :  the  walls 
Blacken'd  about  us,  bats  wheel'd,  and  owls  whoop'd, 
And  gradually  the  powers  of  the  night, 
That  range  above  the  region  of  the  wind, 
Deepening  the  courts  of  twilight  broke  them  up 
Thro'  all  the  silent  spaces  of  the  worlds, 
Beyond  all  thought  into  the  Heaven  of  Heavens. 


Last  little  Lilia,  rising  quietly 
Disrobed  the  glimmering  statue  of  Sir  Ralph 
From  those  rich  silks,  and  home  well-pleas'd  we  went. 


•y^,  ^^r*^.  yV^\ 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


407 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


TRONG  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 
Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  face, 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove; 


.  Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade; 
Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute; 
Thou  madest  Death ;  and  lo,  thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 


Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust: 

Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why; 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die ; 

And  thou  hast  made  him :  thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 
The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  thou: 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how ; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 


Our  little  systems  have  their  day ; 
They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be: 
They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee, 

And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith:  we  cannot  know; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness:  let  it  grow. 


Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell; 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well, 

May  make  one  music  as  before, 


408 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


But  vaster.     We  are  fools  and  slight; 
We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear: 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

-Forgive  what  seem'd  my  sin  in  me; 

What  seem'd  my  worth  since  I  began: 
For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 

And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  remov'd, 
Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so  fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries, 
Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth ; 
Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in  truth, 

And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


A.    H.    H. 


OBIIT    MDCCCXXXIII. 


held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years, 
And  find  in  loss  a  gain  to  match? 
Or  reach  a  hand  thro'  time  to  catch 

The  far-off  interest  of  tears? 


IN  MEMORIAM.  409 


Let  Love  clasp  Grief  lest  both  be  drown'd 
Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss : 
Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss, 

To  dance  with  death,  to  beat  the  ground, 

Than  that  the  victor  Hours  should  scorn 
The  long  result  of  love,  and  boast, 
"  Behold  the  man  that  loved  and  lost, 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn." 


ii. 


Old  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones 
That  name  the  under-lying  dead, 
Thy  fibres  net  the  dreamless  head, 

Thy  roots  are  wrapt  about  the  bones. 

The  seasons  bring  the  flower  again, 
And  bring  the  firstling  to  the  flock; 
And  in  the  dusk  of  thee,  the  clock 

Beats  out  the  little  lives  of  men. 

O  not  for  thee  the  glow,  the  bloom, 
Who  changest  not  in  any  gale, 
Nor  branding  summer  suns  avail 

To  touch  thy  thousand  years  of  gloom : 

And  gazing  on  thee,  sullen  tree, 
Sick  for  thy  stubborn  hardihood, 
I  seem  to  fail  from  out  my  blood 

And  grow  incorporate  into  thee. 


in. 


O  sorrow,  cruel  fellowship, 

O  Priestess  in  the  vaults  of  Death, 
O  sweet  and  bitter  in  a  breath, 

What  whispers  from  thy  lying  lip? 

«  The  stars,"  she  whispers,  "  blindly  run ; 
A  web  is  wov'n  across  the  sky : 
From  out  waste  places  comes  a  cry, 

And  murmurs  from  the  dying  sun: 


±10  2N  MEMORIAM. 


"  And  all  the  phantom,  Nature,  stands, 
With  all  the  music  in  her  tone, 
A  hollow  echo  of  my  own, — 

A  hollow  form  with  empty  hands." 

And  shall  I  take  a  thing  so  blind, 
Embrace  her  as  my  natural  good; 
Or  crush  her,  like  a  vice  of  blood, 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  mind? 


IV. 


To  Sleep  I  give  my  powers  away ; 

My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark; 

I  sit  within  a  helmless  bark, 
And  with  my  heart  I  muse  and  say: 

O  heart,  how  fares  it  with  thee  now, 

That  thou  should'st  fail  from  thy  desire, 
Who  scarcely  darest  to  inquire 

"  What  is  it  makes  me  beat  so  low  ? " 

Something  it  is  which  thou  hast  lost, 
Some  pleasure  from  thine  early  years. 
Break,  thou  deep  vase  of  chilling  tears, 

That  grief  hath  shaken  into  frost ! 

Such  clouds  of  nameless  trouble  cross 
All  night  below  the  darken'd  eyes; 
With  morning  wakes  the  will,  and  cries, 

"  Thou  shalt  not  be  the  fool  of  loss." 


I  sometimes  hold  it  half  a  sin 
To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel ; 
For  words,  like  Nature,  half  reveal 

And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 
A  use  in  measur'd  language  lies; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise, 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  411 


In  words,  like  weeds,  I'll  wrap  me  o'er, 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the  cold; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  enfold 

Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 


VI. 


One  writes,  that  "  Other  friends  remain," 
That  "  Loss  is  common  to  the  race," — 
And  common  is  the  commonplace, 

And  vacant  chaff  well  meant  for  grain. 

That  loss  is  common  would  not  make 
My  own  less  bitter,  rather  more: 
Too  common!     Never  morning  wore 

To  evening,  but  some  heart  did  break. 

O  father,  whereso'er  thou  be, 

Who  pledgest  now  thy  gallant  son ; 
A  shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  be  done, 

Hath  still'd  the  life  that  beat  from  thee. 

O  mother,  praying  God  will  save 

Thy  sailor, — while  thy  head  is  bow'd, 
His  heavy-shotted  hammock-shroud 

Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave. 

Ye  know  no  more  than  I  who  wrought 
At  that  last  hour  to  please  him  well; 
Who  mused  on  all  I  had  to  tell, 

And  something  written,  something  thought; 

Expecting  still  his  advent  home; 
And  ever  met  him  on  his  way 
With  wishes,  thinking,  here  to-day, 

Or  here  to-morrow  will  he  come. 

O  somewhere,  meek  unconscious  dove, 
That  sittest  ranging  golden  hair; 
And  glad  to  find  thyself  so  fair, 

Poor  child,  that  waitest  for  thy  lovel 


412  IN  MEMORIAM. 


For  now  her  father's  chimney  glows 

In  expectation  of  a  guest; 

And  thinking  "  This  will  please  him  best," 
She  takes  a  ribbon  or  a  rose; 

For  he  will  see  them  on  to-night; 

And  with  the  thought  her  color  burns; 

And,  having  left  the  glass,  she  turns 
Once  more  to  set  a  ringlet  right; 

And,  even  when  she  turn'd,  the  curse 
Had  fallen,  and  her  future  lord 
Was  drown'd  in  passing  thro'  the  ford, 

Or  kill'd  in  falling  from  his  horse. 

O  what  to  her  shall  be  the  end? 

And  what  to  me  remains  of  good? 

To  her,  perpetual  maidenhood, 
And  unto  me  no  second  friend. 


VII. 


Dark  house,  by  which  once  more  I  stand 
Here  in  the  long  unlovely  street, 
Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 

So  quickly,  waiting  for  a  hand, 

A  hand  that  can  be  clasp'd  no  more, — 
Behold  me,  for  I  cannot  sleep, 
And  like  a  guilty  thing  I  creep 

At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 

He  is  not  here;  but  far  away 
The  noise  of  life  begins  again, 
And  ghastly  thro'  the  drizzling  rain 

On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank  day. 

VIII. 

A  happy  lover  who  has  come 

To  look  on  her  that  loves  him  well, 
Who  'lights  and  rings  the  gateway  beh, 

And  learns  her  gone  and  far  from  home; 


IN  MEMORIAM.  413 


He  saddens,  all  the  magic  light 

Dies  cff  at  once  from  bower  and  hall, 
And  all  the  place  is  dark,  and  all 

The  chambers  emptied  of  delight; 

So  find  I  every  pleasant  spot 

In  which  we  two  were  wont  to  meet, 
The  field,  the  chamber,  and  the  street, 

For  all  is  dark  where  thou  art  not. 

Yet  as  that  other,  wandering  there 
In  those  deserted  walks,  may  find 
A  flower  beat  with  rain  and  wind, 

Which  once  she  foster' d  up  with  care; 

So  seems  it  in  my  deep  regret, 

0  my  forsaken  heart,  with  thee 
And  this  poor  flower  of  poesy 

Which  little  cared  for  fades  not  yet. 

But  since  it  pleasM  a  \  anish'd  eye, 

1  go  to  plant  it  on   his  tomb, 
That  if  it  can  it  there  may  bloom, 

Or  dying,  there  at  least  may  die. 


IX. 


Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains, 

Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him  o'er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain;  a  favorable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirror'd  mast,  and  lead 

Thro'  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  thro'  early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 


414  IN  MEMORIAM. 


Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above: 
Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the  prow; 
Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps  now, 

My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love; 

My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  n«t  see 
Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run; 
Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son, 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 


x. 


I  hear  the  noise  about  thy  keel; 

I  hear  the  bell  struck  in  the  night; 

I  see  the  cabin-window  bright; 
I  see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 

Thou  bnngest  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 
And  travell'd  men  from  foreign  lands; 
And  letters  unto  trembling  hands; 

And,  thy  dark  freight,  a  vanish'd  life. 

So  bring  him:  we  have  idle  dreams: 
This  look  of  quiet  flatters  thus 
Our  home-bred  fancies:  O  to  us, 

The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod, 

That  takes  the  sunshine  and  the  rains, 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 

The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God; 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 
Should  gulf  him  fathom  deep  in  brine; 
And  hands  so  often  clasp'd  in  mine 

Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 


XI. 


Calm  is  the  morn  without  a  sound, 
Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief, 
And  only  thro'  the  faded  leaf 

The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground: 


IN  MEMORIAM.  415 


Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold 
And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the  furze, 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold: 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 
That  sweeps  with  all  its  autumn  bowers, 
And  crowded  farms  and  lessening  towers, 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main; 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall; 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  an}'  calm,  a  calm  despair: 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 

And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 


XII. 


Lo,  as  a  dove  when  up  she  springs 
To  bear  thro'  Heaven  a  tale  of  woe, 
Some  dolorous  message  knit  below 

The  wild  pulsation  of  her  wings: 

Like  her  I  go;  I  cannot  stay: 
I  leave  this  mortal  ark  behind, 
A  weight  of  nerves  without  a  mind, 

And  leave  the  cliffs,  and  haste  away 

O'er  ocean-mirrors  rounded  large, 

And  reach  the  glow  of  southern  skies, 
And  see  the  sails  at  a  distance  rise, 

And  linger  weeping  on  the  marge, 

And  saying,  "  Comes  he  thus,  my  friend? 
Is  this  the  end  of  all  my  care?" 
And  circle  moaning  in  the  air: 

«  Is  this  the  end?     Is  this  the  end? n 


416  IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  forward  dart  again,  and  play 

About  the  prow,  and  back  return 

To  where  the  body  sits,  and  learn, 
That  I  have  been  an  hour  away. 

XIII. 

Tears  of  the  widower,  when  he  sees 
A  late-lost  form  that  sleep  reveals, 
And  moves  his  doubtful  arms,  arid  feels 

Her  place  is  empty,  fall  like  these ; 

Which  weep  a  loss  forever  new, 

A  void  where  heart  on  heart  repos'd; 

And,  where  warm  hands  have  prest  and  clos'd, 

Silence,  till  I  be  silent  too, 

Which  weep  the  comrade  of  my  choice 

An  awful  thought,  a  life  remov'd, 

The  human-hearted  man  I  loved, 
A  Spirit,  not  a  breathing  voice. 

Come  Time,  and  teach  me,  many  years, 

I  do  not  suffer  in  a  dream  ; 

For  now  so  strange  do  these  things  seem, 
Mine  eyes  have  leisure  for  their  tears; 

My  fancies  time  to  rise  on  wing, 

And  glance  about  the  approaching  sails, 
As  tho'  they  brought  but  merchants'  bales, 

And  not  the  burthen  that  they  bring. 

XIV. 

If  one  should  bring  me  this  report, 

That  thou  hadst  touch'd  the  land  to-day, 
And  I  went  down  unto  the  quay, 

And  found  thee  lying  in  the  port; 

And  standing,  muffled  round  with  woe, 
Should  see  thy  passengers  in  rank 
Come  stepping  lightly  down  the  plank, 

And  beckoning  unto  those  they  know; 


IN  MEMORIAM.  417 


And  if  along  with  these  should  come 
The  man  I  held  as  half  divine; 
Should  strike  a  sudden  hand  in  mine, 

And  ask  a  thousand  things  of  home; 

And  I  should  tell  him  all  my  pain, 
And  how  my  life  had  droop' d  of  late, 
And  he  should  sorrow  o'er  my  state 

And  marvel  what  possessed  my  brain; 

And  I  perceiv'd  no  touch  of  change, 
No  hint  of  death  in  all  his  frame, 
But  found  him  all  in  all  the  same, 

I  should  not  feel  it  to  be  strange. 

XV. 

To-night  the  winds  begin  to  rise 

And  roar  from  yonder  dropping  day: 
The  last  red  leaf  is  whirlM  away, 

The  rooks  are  blown  about  the  skies; 

The  forest  crack'd,  the  waters  curlM, 
The  cattle  huddled  on  the  lea; 
And  wildly  dash'd  on  tower  and  tree 

The  sunbeam  strikes  along  the  world: 

And  but  for  fancies,  which  aver 
That  all  thy  motions  gently  pass 
Athwart  a  plane  of  molten  glass, 

I  scarce  could  brook  the  strain  and  stir 

That  makes  the  barren  branches  loud; 
And  but  for  fear  it  is  not  so, 
The  wild  unrest  that  lives  In  woe 

Would  dote  and  pore  on  yonder  cloud 

That  rises  upward  always  higher, 
And  onward  drags  a  laboring  breast, 
And  topples  round  the  dreary  west 

A  looming  bastion  fring'd  with  fire. 


418  IN  MEMORIAM. 


XVI. 

What  words  are  these  have  fall'n  from  me? 

Can  calm  despair  and  wild  unrest 

Be  tenants  of  a  single  breast, 
Or  sorrow  such  a  changeling  be? 

Or  doth  she  only  seem  to  take 

The  touch  of  change  in  calm  or  storm; 
But  knows  no  more  of  transient  form 

In  her  deep  self,  than  some  dead  lake 

That  holds  the  shadow  of  a  lark 
Hung  in  the  shadow  of  a  heaven? 
Or  has  the  shock,  so  harshly  given, 

Confus'd  me  like  the  unhappy  bark 

That  strikes  by  night  a  craggy  shelf, 
And  staggers  blindly  ere  she  sink? 
And  stunn'd  me  from  my  power  to  think 

And  all  my  knowledge  of  myself; 

And  made  me  that  delirious  man 
Whose  fancy  fuses  old  and  new, 
And  flashes  into  false  and  true, 

And  mingles  all  without  a  plan? 

XVII. 

Thou  comest,  much  wept  for :  such  a  breeze 
Compeird  thy  canvas,  and  my  prayer 
Was  as  the  whisper  of  an  air 

To  breathe  thee  over  lonely  seas. 

For  I  in  spirit  saw  thee  move 

Thro'  circles  of  the  bounding  sky, 
Week  after  week :  the  days  go  by : 

Come  quick,  thou  bringest  all  I  love. 

Henceforth,  wherever  thou  may'st  roam, 
My  blessing,  like  a  line  of  light, 
Is  on  the  waters  day  and  night, 

And  like  a  beacon  guards  thee  nome. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  419 


So  may  whatever  tempest  mars 
Mid-ocean  spare  thee,  sacred  bark ; 
And  balmy  drops  in  summer  dark 

Slide  from  the  bosom  of  the  stars. 

So  kind  an  office  hath  been  done, 

Such  precious  relics  brought  by  thee; 
The  dust  of  him  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run. 

XVIII. 

'Tis  well;  'tis  something;  we  may  stand 
Where  he  in  English  earth  is  laid, 
And  from  his  ashes  may  be  made 

The  violet  of  his  native  land. 

'Tis  little;  but  it  looks  in  truth 
As  if  the  quiet  bones  were  blest 
Among  familiar  names  to  rest 

And  in  the  places  of  his  youth. 

Come  then,  pure  hands,  and  bear  the  head 
That  sleeps  or  wears  the  mask  of  sleep, 
And  come,  whatever  loves  to  weep, 

And  hear  the  ritual  of  the  dead. 

Ah  yet,  ev'n  yet,  if  this  might  be, 

I,  falling  on  his  faithful  heart, 

Would  breathing  through  his  lips  impart 
The  life  that  almost  dies  in  me; 

That  dies  not,  but  endures  with  pain, 
And  slowly  forms  the  firmer  mind, 
Treasuring  the  look  it  cannot  find, 

The  words  that  are  not  heard  again. 

XIX. 

The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 

The  darken'd  heart  that  beat  no  more; 
They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore, 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 


420 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills; 
The  salt  sea- water  passes  by, 
And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills. 


The  Wye  is  hush'd  nor  moved  along, 
And  hush'd  by  deepest  grief  of  all, 
When  fill'd  with  tears  that  cannot  fall, 

I  brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  flows  down,  the  wave  again 
Is  vocal  in  its  wooded  walls; 
My  deeper  anguish  also  falls 

And  I  can  speak  a  little  then. 


xx. 


The  lesser  griefs  that  may  be  said, 
That  breathe  a  thousand  tender  vows, 
Are  but  as  servants  in  a  house 

Where  lies  the  master  newly  dead; 


IN  ME  MORI  AM.  421 


Who  speak  their  feeling  as  it  is, 

And  weep  the  fulness  from  the  mind: 
"  It  will  be  hard,"  they  say,  "  to  find 

Another  service  such  as  this." 

My  lighter  moods  are  like  to  these, 
That  out  of  words  a  comfort  win; 
But  there  are  other  griefs  within, 

And  tears  that  at  their  fountain  freeze: 

For  by  the  hearth  the  children  sit 
Cold  in  that  atmosphere  of  Death, 
And  scarce  endure  to  draw  the  breath, 

Or  like  to  noiseless  phantoms  flit: 

But  open  converse  is  there  none, 
So  much  the  vital  spirits  sink 
To  see  the  vacant  chair,  and  think, 

"  How  good!  how  kind!  and  he  is  gone." 

XXI. 

I  sing  to  him  that  rests  below, 

And,  since  the  grasses  round  me  wave, 
I  take  the  grasses  of  the  grave, 

And  make  them  pipes  whereon  to  blow. 

The  traveller  hears  me  now  and  then, 
And  sometimes  harshly  will  he  speak: 
"  This  fellow  would  make  weakness  weak, 

And  melt  the  waxen  hearts  of  men." 

Another  answers,  "  Let  him  be, 
He  loves  to  make  parade  of  pain, 
That  with  his  piping  he  may  gain 

The  praise  that  comes  to  constancy." 

A  third  is  wroth,  "  Is  this  an  hour 
For  private  sorrow's  barren  song, 
When  more  and  more  the  people  throag 

The  chairs  and  thrones  of  civil  power? 


422  IN  MEMORIAM. 


"  A  time  to  sicken  and  to  swoon, 

When  Science  reaches  forth  her  arms 
To  feel  from  world  to  world,  and  charms 

Her  secret  from  the  latest  moon?  " 

Behold,  ye  speak  an  idle  thing: 
Ye  never  knew  the  sacred  dust; 
I  do  but  sing  because  I  must, 

And  pipe  but  as  the  linnets  sing: 

And  one  is  glad;  her  note  is  gay, 

For  now  her  little  ones  have  ranged; 
And  one  is  sad ;  her  note  is  changed, 

Because  her  brood  is  stol'n  away. 

XXII. 


The  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go, 
Which  led  by  tracts  that  pleas'd  us  well, 
Thro'  four  sweet  years  arose  and  fell, 

From  flower  to  flower,  from  snow  to  snow: 

And  we  with  singing  cheer'd  the  way, 
And  crown'd  with  all  the  season  lent, 
From  April  on  to  April  went, 

And  glad  at  heart  from  May  to  May: 

But  where  the  path  we  walk'd  began 
To  slant  the  fifth  autumnal  slope, 
As  we  descended,  following  Hope, 

There  sat  the  shadow  fear'd  of  man; 

Who  broke  our  fair  companionship, 
And  spread  his  mantle  dark  and  cold, 
And  wrapt  thee  formless  in  the  fold, 

And  dull'd  the  murmur  on  thy  lip, 

And  bore  thee  where  I  could  not  see 
Nor  follow,  tho'  I  walk  in  haste, 
And  think  that  somewhere  in  the  waste 

The  Shadow  sits  and  waits  for  me. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  423 


XXIII. 


Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut, 

Or  breaking  into  song  by  fits,  ■  i 

Alone,  alone,  to  where  he  sits, 
The  Shadow  cloakM  from  head  to  foot, 

Who  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds, 

I  wander,  often  falling  lame, 

And  looking  back  to  whence  I  came, 
Or  on  to  where  the  pathway  leads ; 

And  crying,  "  How  changed  from  where  it  ran 

Thro'  lands  where  not  a  leaf  was  dumb; 

But  all  the  lavish  hills  would  hum 
The  murmur  of  a  happy  Pan : 

*  When  each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each, 
And  Fancy  light  from  Fancy  caught, 
And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed  with  Thought 

Ere  Thought  could  wed  itself  with  Speech; 

u  And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good, 

And  all  was  good  that  Time  could  bring, 

And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 
Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood; 

u  And  many  an  old  philosophy 

On  Argive  heights  divinely  sang, 

And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang 
To  many  a  flute  of  Arcady." 

XXIV. 

And  was  the  day  of  my  delight 

As  sure  and  perfect  as  I  say? 

The  very  source  and  fount  of  Day 
Is  dash'd  with  wandering  isles  of  night. 


If  all  was  good  and  fair  we  met, 
This  earth  had  been  the  Paradise 


424  IN  MEMORIAM. 


It  never  look'd  to  human  eyes 
Since  Adam  left  his  garden  yet. 

And  is  it  that  the  haze  of  grief 

Makes  former  gladness  loom  so  great? 
The  lowness  of  the  present  state, 

That  sets  the  past  in  this  relief  ? 

Or  that  the  past  will  always  win 

A  glory  from  its  being  far; 

And  orb  into  the  perfect  star 
We  saw  not,  when  we  moved  therein? 

xxv. 

I  know  that  this  was  Life, — the  track 
Whereon  with  equal  feet  we  fared ; 
And  then,  as  now,  the  day  prepared 

The  daily  burden  for  the  back. 

But  this  it  was  that  made  me  move 

As  light  as  carrier-birds  in  air; 

I  lov'd  the  weight  I  had  to  bear, 
Because  I  needed  help  of  Love; 

Nor  could  I  weary,  heart  or  limb, 

When  mighty  Love  would  cleave  in  twain 

The  lading  of  a  single  pain, 
And  part  it,  giving  half  to  him. 

XXVI. 

Still  onward  winds  the  dreary  way; 
I  with  it;  for  I  long  to  prove 
No  lapse  of  moons  can  canker  Love, 

Whatever  fickle  tongues  may  say. 

And  if  that  eye  which  watches  guilt 
And  goodness,  and  hath  power  to  see 
Within  the  green  the  moulder'd  tree, 

And  towers  fall'n  as  soon  as  built,— 


rr-~r — r 


n  w  i      WT 


And  one  is  sad;  her  note  is  changed, 
Because  her  brood  is  6tol'n  away." 


IN  ME  MORI  AM.  <25 


O,  if  indeed  that  eye  foresee 
Or  see  (in  Him  is  no  before) 
In  more  of  life  true  life  no  more 

And  Love  the  indifference  to  be, 

Then  might  I  find,  ere  yet  the  morn 
Breaks  hither  over  Indian  seas, 
That  Shadow  waiting  with  the  keys, 

To  shroud  me  from  my  proper  scorn. 

XXVII. 

I  envy  not  in  any  moods 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 
The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods: 


I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfettered  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes: 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 
The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth, 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth; 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I  hold  it  true,  whatever  befall ; 

I  feel  it,  when  I  sorrow  most; 

'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

XXVIII. 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ; 

The  moon  is  hid;  the  night  is  still; 

The  Christmas  bells  from  hill  to  hill 
Answer  each  other  in  the  mist. 

Four  voices  of  four  hamlets  round, 

From  far  and  near,  on  mead  and  moor, 
Swell  out  and  fail,  as  if  a  door 

Were  shut  between  me  and  the  sound: 


426  IN  MEMORIAM. 


Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind, 
That  now  dilate,  and  now  decrease, 
Peace  and  good-will,  good-will  and  peace, 

Peace  and  good-will,  to  all  mankind. 

This  year  I  slept  and  woke  with  pain, 
I  almost  wish'd  no  more  to  wake, 
And  that  my  hold  on  life  would  break 

Before  I  heard  those  bells  again. 

But  they  my  troubled  spirit  rule, 

For  they  controll'd  me  when  a  boy; 
They  bring  me  sorrow  touch'd  with  joy, 

The  merry,  merry  bells  of  Yule. 

XXIX. 

With  such  compelling  cause  to  grieve 
As  daily  vexes  household  peace, 
And  chains  regret  to  his  decease, 

How  dare  we  keep  our  Christmas-eve; 

Which  brings  no  more  a  welcome  guest 
To  enrich  the  threshold  of  the  night 
With  shower' d  largess  of  delight, 

In  dance  and  song  and  game  and  jest. 

Yet  go,  and  while  the  holly-boughs 
Entwine  the  cold  baptismal  font, 
Make  one  wreath  more  for  Use  and  Wont 

That  guard  the  poitals  of  the  house; 

Old  sister  of  a  day  gone  by, 

Gray  nurses,  loving  nothing  new; 
Why  should  they  miss  their  yearly  due 

Before  their  time?     They  too  will  die. 

xxx. 

With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave 
The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth; 
A  rainy  cloud  possess'd  the  earth, 

And  sadly  fell  on  Christmas-eve. 


IN  MBMORIAM.  42 1 


At  our  old  pastimes  in  the  hall 

We  gambolPd,  making  vain  pretence 
Of  gladness,  with  an  awful  sense 

Of  one  mute  Shadow  watching  all. 

We  paused :  the  winds  were  in  the  beech ; 

We  heard  them  sweep  the  winter  land; 

And  in  a  circle  hand-in-hand 
Sat  silent,  looking  each  at  each. 

Then  echo-like  our  voices  rang; 

We  sang  tho'  every  eye  was  dim, 

A  merry  song  we  sang  with  him 
Last  year:  impetuously  we  sang: 

We  ceased :  a  gentler  feeling  crept 

Upon  us:  surely  rest  is  meet: 

"  They  rest,"  we  said,  "  their  sleep  is  sweet," 
And  silence  follow'd,  and  we  wept. 

Our  voices  took  a  higher  range; 

Once  more  we  sang:  "  They  do  not  die 

Nor  lose  their  mortal  sympathy, 
Nor  change  to  us,  although  they  change; 

"Rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail 
With  gather' d  power,  yet  the  same 
Pierces  the  keen  seraphic  flame 

From  orb  to  orb,  from  veil  to  veil." 

Rise,  happy  morn,  rise,  holy  morn, 

Draw  forth  the  cheerful  day  from  night: 
O  Father,  touch  the  east,  and  light 

The  light  that  shone  when  Hope  was  born. 


XXXI. 

When  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave, 
And  home  to  Mary's  house  returnM, 
Was  this  demanded, — if  he  yearn'd 

To  hear  her  weeping  by  his  grave  ? 


428  IN  MBMORIAM. 


"Where  wert  thou,  brother,  those  four  days?  " 

There  lives  no  record  of  reply, 

Which  telling  what  it  is  to  die 
Had  surely  added  praise  to  praise. 

From  every  house  the  neighbors  met, 

The  streets  were  fill'd  with  joyful  sound, 
A  solemn  gladness  even  crown'd 

The  purple  brows  of  Olivet. 

Behold  a  man  rais'd  up  by  Christ! 

The  rest  remaineth  unreveal'd; 

He  told  it  not;  or  something  seal'd 
The  lips  of  that  Evangelist. 

XXXII. 

Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer, 
Nor  other  thought  her  mind  admits 
But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he  sits. 

And  he  that  brought  him  back  is  there. 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  from  the  living  brother's  face, 

And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 

All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears, 
Borne  down  by  gladness  so  complete, 
She  bows,  she  bathes  the  Saviour's  feet 

With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful  prayers, 
Whose  loves  in  higher  love  endure; 
What  souls  possess  themselves  so  pure, 

Or  is  there  blessedness  like  theirs  ? 

XXXIII. 

O  thou  that  after  toil  and  storm 

May'st  seem  to  have  reach' d  a  purer  air, 
Whose  faith  has  centre  everywhere, 

Nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form, 


IN  MEMORIAM.  429 


Leave  thou  thy  sister,  when  she  prays, 
Her  early  Heaven,  her  happy  views; 
Nor  thou  with  shadow'd  hint  confuse 

A  life  that  leads  melodious  days. 

Her  faith  thro'  form  is  pure  as  thine, 
Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good: 
Oh!  sacred  be  the  flesh  and  blood 

To  which  she  links  a  truth  divine! 

See  thou,  that  countest  reason  ripe 
In  holding  by  the  law  within, 
Thou  fail  not  in  a  world  of  sin, 

And  ev'n  for  want  of  such  a  type. 

XXXIV. 

My  own  dim  life  should  teach  me  this, 
That  life  shall  live  forevermore, 
Else  earth  is  darkness  at  the  core, 

And  dust  and  ashes  all  that  is: 

This  round  of  green,  this  orb  of  flame, 
Fantastic  beauty;  such  as  lurks 
In  some  wild  Poet,  when  he  works 

Without  a  conscience  or  an  aim. 

What  then  were  God  to  such  as  1  ? 

'Twere  hardly  worth  my  while  to  choose 

Of  things  all  mortal,  or  to  use 
A  little  patience  ere  I  die; 

'Twere  best  at  once  to  sink  to  peace, 
Like  birds  the  charming  serpent  draws, 
To  drop  head-foremost  in  the  jaws 

Of  vacant  darkness,  and  to  cease. 

XXXV. 

Yet  if  some  voice  that  man  could  trust 
Should  murmur  from  the  narrow  house, 
"The  cheeks  drop  in;  the  body  bows; 

Man  dies:  nor  is  there  hope  in  dust." 


480 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Might  I  not  say,  "  Yet  even  here, 
But  for  one  hour,  O  Love,  I  strive 
To  keep  so  sweet  a  thing  alive?  " 

But  I  should  turn  mine  ears  and  hear 


The  moanings  of  the  homeless  sea, 

The  sound  of  streams  that  swift  or  slow 
Draw  down  yEonian  hills,  and  sow 

The  dust  of  continents  to  be ; 


And  Love  would  answer  with  a  sigh, 
"  The  sound  of  that  forgetful  shore 
Will  change  my  sweetness  more  and  more, 

Half-dead  to  know  that  I  shall  die." 

O  me !  what  profits  it  to  put 

An  idle  case?     If  Death  were  seen 
At  first  as  Death,  Love  had  not  been, 

Or  been  in  narrowest  working  shut, 


Mere  fellowship  of  sluggish  moods, 

Or  in  his  coarsest  Satyr-shape 

Had  bruis'd  the  herb  and  crush'd  the  grape, 
And  bask'd  and  batten'd  in  the  woods, 


/.Y  ME  MORI  AM.  431 


XXXVI. 

Tho'  truths  in  manhood  darkly  join, 
Deep-seated  in  our  mystic  frame, 
We  yield  all  blessing  to  the  name 

Of  Him  that  made  them  current  coin; 

For  Wisdom  dealt  with  mortal  pow 

Where  Truth  in  closest  words  shall  fail, 
When  Truth  embodied  in  a  tale 

'Shall  enter  in  at  lowly  doors. 

And  so  the  Word  had  breath,  and  wrought 
With  human  hands  the  creed  of  creeds 
In  loveliness  of  perfect  deeds, 

More  strong  than  all  poetic  thought; 

Which  he  may  read  that  binds  the  sheaf, 
Or  builds  the  house,  or  digs  the  grave, 
And  those  wild  eyes  that  watch  the  wave 

In  roarings  round  the  coral  reef. 


XXXVII. 

Urania  speaks  with  darkened  brow; 

Thou  protest  here  where  thou  art  least; 

This  faith  has  many  a  purer   priest, 
And  many  an  abler  voice  than  thou. 

"  Go  down  beside  thy  native  rill, 
On  thy  Parnassus  set  thy  feet, 
And  hear  thy  laurel  whisper  sweet 

About  the  ledges  of  the  hill." 

And  my  Melpomene  replies, 

A  touch  of  shame  upon  her  cheek : 
"  I  am  not  worthy  ev'n  to  speak 

Of  thy  prevailing  mysteries; 

"  For  I  am  but  an  earthly  Muse, 
And  owning  but  a  little  art 


432  IN  MEMORIAM. 


To  lull  with  song  an  aching  heart, 
And  render  human  love  his  dues; 

"  But  brooding  on  the  dear  one  dead, 
And  all  he  said  of  things  divine, 
(And  dear  to  me  as  sacred  wine 

To  dying  lips  is  all  he  said), 

"  I  murmur'd,  as  I  came  along, 

Of  comfort  clasp'd  in  truth  reveaPd; 
And  loiter'd  in  the  Master's  field, 

And  darken'd  sanctities  with  song." 

XXXVIII. 

With  weary  steps  I  loiter  on, 
Tho'  always  under  alter'd  skies 
The  purple  from  the  distance  dies, 

My  prospect  and  horizon  gone. 

No  joy  the  blowing  season  gives, 
The  herald  melodies  of  spring, 
But  in  the  songs  I  love  to  sing 

A  doubtful  gleam  of  solace  lives. 

If  any  care  for  what  is  here 
Survive  in  spirits  render'd  free, 
Then  are  these  songs  I  sing  of  thee 

Not  all  ungrateful  to  thine  ear. 

XXXIX. 

Old  warder  of  these  buried  bones, 

And  answering  now  my  random  stroke 
With  fruitful  cloud  and  living  smoke, 

Dark  yew,  that  graspest  at  the  stones 

And  dippest  toward  the  dreamless  head, 
To  thee,  too,  comes  the  golden  hour 
When  flower  is  feeling  after  flower; 

But  Sorrow — fixt  up@n  the  dead? 


IN  MEMORIAM.  43& 


And  darkening  the  dark  graves  of  men,- 
What  whisper'd  from  her  lying  lips? 
Thy  gloom  is  kindled  at  the  tips, 

And  passes  into  gloom  again. 


XL. 


Could  we  forget  the  widow'd  hour, 
And  look  on  Spirits  breathed  away, 
As  on  a  maiden  in  the  day 

When  first  she  wears  her  orange-flower! 

When  crown'd  with  blessing  she  doth  rise 
To  take  her  latest  leave  of  home, 
And  hopes  and  light  regrets  that  come 

Make  April  of  her  tender  eyes; 

And  doubtful  joys  the  father  move, 
And  tears  are  on  the  mother's  face, 
As  parting  with  a  long  embrace 

She  enters  other  realms  of  love; 

Her  office  there  to  rear,  to  teach, 
Becoming,  as  is  meet  and  fit, 
A  link  among  the  days,  to  knit 

The  generations  each  with  each; 

And,  doubtless,  unto  thee  is  given 
A  life  that  bears  immortal  fruit 
In  such  great  offices  as  suit 

The  full-grown  energies  of  heaven. 

Ay  me,  the  difference  I  discern! 
How  often  shall  her  old  fireside 
Be  cheer'd  with  tidings  of  the  bride, 

How  often  she  herself  return, 

And  tell  them  all  they  would  have  told, 
And  bring  her  babe,  and  make  her  boast 
Till  even  those  that  miss'd  her  most 

Shall  count  new  things  as  dear  as  old: 


434  IN  MEMORIAM. 


But  thou  and  I  have  shaken  hands, 
Till  growing  winters  lay  me  low; 
My  paths  are  in  the  fields  I  know, 

And  thine  in  undiscover'd  lands. 


XLI. 

Thy  spirit  ere  our  fatal  loss 

Did  ever  rise  from  high  to  higher; 
As  mounts  the  heavenward  altar-fire, 

As  flies  the  lighter  through  the  gross. 

But  thou  art  turn'd  to  something  strange, 
And  I  have  lost  the  links  that  bound 
Thy  changes;  here  upon  the  ground, 

No  more  partaker  of  thy  change. 

Deep  folly!  yet  that  this  could  be, — 

That  I  could  wing  my  will  with  might 
To  leap  the  grades  of  life  and  light, 

And  flash  at  once,  my  friend,  to  thee: 

For  tho'  my  nature  rarely  yields 

To  that  vague  fear  implied  in  death; 
Nor  shudders  at  the  gulfs  beneath, 

The  howlings  from  forgotten  fields: 

Yet  oft  when  sundown  skirts  the  moor 

An  inner  trouble  I  behold, 

A  spectral  doubt  which  makes  me  cold, 
That  I  shall  be  thy  mate  no  more, 

Tho'  following  with  an  upward   mind 
The   vonders  that  have  come  to  thee, 
Thro'  all  the  secular  to-be, 

But  evermore  a  life  behind. 

And  so  may  place  retain  us  still, 
And  he  the  much-belov'd  again, 
A  lord  of  large  experience,  train 

To  riper  growth  the  mind  and  will; 


IN  MEMORIAM.  435 


And  what  delights  can  equal  those 
That  stir  the  spirit's  inner  deeps, 
When  one  that  loves,  but  knows  not,  reaps 

A  truth  from  one  that  loves  and  knows? 


XLIII. 

If  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one, 
And  every  spirit's  folded  bloom 
Thro'  all  its  intervital  gloom 

In  some  long  trance  should  slumber  on; 

Unconscious  of  the  sliding  hour, 

Bare  of  the  body,  might  it  last, 

And  silent  traces  of  the  past 
Be  all  the  color  of  the  flower: 

So  then  were  nothing  lost  to  man; 

So  that  still  garden  of  the  souls 

In  many  a  figur'd  leaf  enrolls 
The  total  world  since  life  began; 

And  love  will  last  as  pure  and  whole 
As  when  he  loved  me  here  in  Time, 
And  at  the  spiritual  prime 

Rewaken  with  the  dawning  soul. 

XLIV. 

How  fares  it  with  the  happy  dead? 

For  here  the  man  is  more  and  more; 

But  he  forgets  the  days  before 
God  shut  the  doorways  of  his  head. 

The  days  have  vanish'd,  tone  and  tint, 
And  yet  perhaps  the  hoarding  sense 
Gives  out  at  times  (he  knows  not  whence) 

A  little  flash,  a  mystic  hint; 

And  in  the  long  harmonious  years 
(If  Death  so  taste  Lethean  springs) 
May  some  dim  touch  of  earthly  things 

Surprise  thee   ranging  with  thy  peers. 


436  IN  MEMORIAM. 


If  such  a  dreamy  touch  should  fall, 
O  turn  thee  round,  resolve  the  doubt; 
My  guardian  angel  will  speak  out 

In  that  high  place,  and  tell  thee  all. 

XLV. 

The  baby  new  to  earth  and  sky, 
What  time  his  tender  palm  is  prest 
Against  the  circle  of  the  breast, 

Has  never  thought  that  "  this  is  I:  " 

But  as  he  grows  he  gathers  much, 

And  learns  the  use  of  "  I,"  and  "  me," 
And  finds  "  I  am  not  what  I  see, 

And  other  than  the  things  I  touch." 

So  rounds  he  to  a  separate  mind 

From  whence  clear  memory  may  begin, 
As  thro'  the  frame  that  binds  him  in 

His  isolation  grows  defined. 


This  use  may  lie  in  blood  and  breath, 
Which  else  were  fruitless  of  their  due, 
Had  man  to  learn  himself  anew 


Beyond  the  second  birth  of  Death. 


XLVI. 


We  ranging  down  the  lower  track, 
The  path  we  came  by,  thorn  and  flower, 
Is  shadow'd  by  the  growing  hour, 

Lest  life  should  fail  in  looking  back. 

So  be  it:  there  no  shade  can  last 

In  that  deep  dawn  behind  the  tomb, 

But  clear  from  marge  to  marge  shall  bloom 

The  eternal  landscape  of  the  past; 


A  lifelong  tract  of  time  reveal'd; 

The  fruitful  hours  of  still  increase; 

Days  order'd  in  a  wealthy  peace, 
And  those  five  years  its  richest  field. 


/.V  ME  MORI  AM.  437 


Oh  Love,  thy  province  were  not-  large, 
A  bounded  field,  nor  stretching  far; 
Look  also,  Love,  a  brooding  star, 

A  rosy  warmth  from  marge  to  marge. 

XLVII. 

That  each,  who  seems  a  separate  whole, 
Should  move  his  rounds,  and  fusing  all 
The  skirts  of  self  again,  should  fall 

Remerging  in  the  general  Soul, 

Is  faith  as  vague  as  all  unsweet: 
Eternal  form  shall  still  divide 
The  eternal  soul  from  all  beside; 

And  I  shall  know  him  when  we  meet: 

And  we  shall  sit  at  endless  feast, 

Enjoying  each  the  other's  good: 
•     What  vaster  dream  can  hit  the  mood 
Of  love  on  earth?     He  seeks  at  least 

Upon  the  last  and  sharpest  height, 
Before  the  spirits  fade  away, 
Some  landing-place,  to  clasp  and  say, 

«*  Farewell!     We  lose  ourselves  in  light." 

XLVIII. 

If  these  brief  lays,  of  Sorrow  born, 
Were  taken  to  be  such  as  closed 
Grave  doubts  and  answers  here  proposed, 

Then  these  were  such  as  men  might  scorn: 

Her  care  is  not  to  part  and  prove; 

She  takes,  when  harsher  moods  remit, 
What  slender  shade  of  doubt  may  flit, 

And  makes  it  vassal  unto  love: 

And  hence,  indeed,  she  sports  with  words, 
But  better  serves  a  wholesome  law, 
And  holds  it  sin  and  shame  to  draw 

The  deepest  measure  from  the  chords: 


438  2N  MEMORIAM. 


Nor  dare  she  trust  a  larger  lay, 
But  rather  loosens  from  the  lip 
Short  swallow-flights  of  song,  that  dip 

Their  wings  in  tears,  and  skim  away. 

XLIX. 

From  art,  from  nature,  from  the  schools, 
Let  random  influences  glance, 
Like  light  in  many  a  shiver'd  lance 

That  breaks  about  the  dappled  pools: 

The  lightest  wave  of  thought  shall  lisp, 
The  fancy's  tenderest  eddy  wreathe, 
The  slightest  air  of  song  shall  breathe 

To  make  the  sullen  surface  crisp. 

And  look  thy  way,  and  go  thy  way, 

But  blame  not  thou  the  winds  that  make 
The  seeming-wanton  ripple  break, 

The  tender-pencil'd  shadow  play. 

Beneath  all  fancied  hopes  and  fears, 
Ay  me !  the  sorrow  deepens  down, 
Whose  muffled  motions  blindly  drown 

The  bases  of  my  life  in  tears. 


Be  near  me  when  my  light  is  low, 

When  the  blood  creeps,  and  the  nerves  prick 
And  tingle ;  and  the  heart  is  sick, 

And  all  the  wheels  of  Being  slow. 

Be  near  me  when  the  sensuous  frame 
Is  rack'd  with  pangs  that  conquer  trust: 
And  Time,  a  maniac  scattering  dust, 

And  Life,  a  Fury  slinging  flame. 

Be  near  me  when  my  faith  is  dry, 
And  men  the  flies  of  latter  spring, 
That  lay  their  eggs,  and  sting  and  sing, 
And  weave  their  petty  cells  and  die. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  439 


Be  near  me  when  I  fade  away, 

To  point  the  term  of  human  strife, 
And  on  the  low  dark  verge  of  life 

The  twilight  of  eternal  day. 


LI. 


Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  he  near  us  at  our  side? 
Is  there  no  baseness  we  would  hide? 

No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread? 

Should  he  for  whose  applause  I  strove, 
I  had  such  reverence  for  his  blame, 
See  with  clear  eve  some  hidden  shame, 

And  I  be  lessened  in  his  love? 

I  wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untrue: 

Shall  Love  be  blamed  for  want  of  faith? 
There  must  be  wisdom  with  great  Death 

The  dead  shall  look  me  thro'  and  thro\ 

Be  near  us  when  we  climb  or  fall: 

Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling  hours 
With  larger  other  eves  than  OUTS, 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all. 


LII. 


I  cannot  love  thee  as  I  ought, 

For  love  reflects  the  thing  belovM : 
My  words  are  only  words,  and  moved 

Upon  the  topmost  froth  of  thought. 

u  Yet  blame  not  thou  thy  plaintive  song," 
The  Spirit  of  true  love  replied ; 
"  Thou  canst  not  move  me  from  thy  side, 

Nor  human  frailty  do  me  wrong. 

*  What  keeps  a  spirit  wholly  true 

To  that  ideal  which  he  bears? 

What  record  ?  not  the  sinless  years 
That  breathed  beneath  the  Syrian  blue: 


440  IN  MEMORIAM. 


"  So  fret  not,  like  an  idle  girl, 

That  life  is  dash'd  with  flecks  of  sin, 
Abide:  thy  wreath  is  gather'd  in, 

When  Time  hath  sunder'd  shell  from  pearl." 

LIII. 

How  many  a  father  have  I  seen, 
A  sober  man  among  his  boys, 
Whose  youth  was  full  of  foolish  noise, 

Who  wears  his  manhood  hale  and  green : 

And  dare  we  to  this  fancy  give, 

That  had  the  wild-oat  not  been  sown, 
The  soil,  left  barren,  scarce  had  grown 

The  grain  by  which  a  man  may  live? 

O,  if  we  held  the  doctrine  sound 
For  life  outliving  heats  of  youth, 
Yet  who  would  preach  it  as  a  truth 

To  those  that  eddy  round  and  round? 

Hold  thou  the  good:  define  it  well: 
For  fear  divine  Philosophy 
Should  push  beyond  her  mark,  and  be 

Procuress  to  the  Lords  of  Hell. 

LIV. 

O  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet; 

That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy'd, 

Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 
When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain; 

That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 

Is  shrivell'd  in  a  fruitless  fire, 
Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 


i 


ii 

2 


.____—■ 


IN  MEMORIAM.  441 


Behold,  we  know  not  anything; 
I  can  hut  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last — far  off — at  last,  to  all, 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream:  but  what  am  I? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night: 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light: 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 

LV. 

The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life ; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  up  to  God, 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all. 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 

LVI. 

"  So  careful  of  the  type?  "  but  no. 
From  scarped  cliff  and  quarried  stone 
She  cries,  "  A  thousand  types  are  gone 

I  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 


442 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


"Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me: 
I  bring  to  life,  I  bring  to  death: 
The  spirit  does  but  mean  the  breath: 

I  know  no  more."     And  he,  shall  he, 

Man,  her  last  work,  who  seem'd  so  fair, 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes, 
Who  roll'd  the  psalm  to  wintry  skies, 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer, 

Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed, 
And  love  Creation's  final  law, — 
Tho'  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 

With  ravin,  shriek'd  against  his  creed, — 

Who  loved,  who  suffer'd  countless  ills, 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust, 

Or  seal'd  within  the  iron  hills? 

No  more?  A  monster  then,  a  dream, 
A  discord.  Dragons  of  the  prime, 
That  tear  each  other  in  their  slime, 

Were  mellow  music  match'd  with  him. 

O  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail ! 

O  for  thy  voice  to  soothe  and  bless! 

What  hope  of  answer,  or  redress? 
Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 

LVII. 

Peace;  come  away:  the  song  of  woe 

Is  after  all  an  earthly  song: 

Peace;  come  away:   we  do  him  wrong 
To  sing  so  wildly:  let  us  go. 

Come;  let  us  go:  your  cheeks  are  pale; 
But  half  my  life  I  leave  behind: 
Methinks  my  friend  is  richly  shrined 

But  I  shall  pass;  my  work  will  fail. 


IN  MEMOR1AM.  443 


Yet  in  these  ears,  till  hearing  dies 
One  set  slow  bell  will  seem  to  toll 
The  passing  of  the  sweetest  soul 

That  ever  look'd  with  human  eyes. 

I  hear  it  now,  and  o'er  and  o'er, 

Eternal  greetings  to  the  dead ; 

And  "  Ave,  Ave,  Ave,"  said, 
"  Adieu,  adieu,"  forevermore. 

LVIII. 

In  those  sad  words  I  took  farewell: 

Like  echoes  in  sepulchral  halls, 

As  drop  by  drop  the  water  falls 
In  vaults  and  catacombs  they  fell; 

And,  falling,  idly  broke  the  peace 
Of  hearts  that  beat  from  day  to  day, 
Half-conscious  of  their  dying  clay, 

And  those  cold  crypts  where  they  shall  cease. 

The  high  Muse  answer'd:  "  Wherefore  grieve 
Thy  brethren  with  a  fruitless  tear? 
Abide  a  little  longer  here, 

And  thou  shalt  take  a  nobler  leave." 

LIX. 

O  Sorrow,  wilt  thou  live  with  me, 
No  casual  mistress,  but  a  wife, 
My  bosom  friend  and  half  of  life; 

As  I  confess  it  needs  must  be; 

O  Sorrow,  wilt  thou  rule  my  blood, 
Be  sometimes  lovely  like  a  bride, 
And  put  thy  harsher  moods  aside, 

If  thou  wilt  have  me  wise  and  good. 

My  centred  passion  cannot  mow. 

Nor  will  it  lessen  from  to-day; 

But  I'll  bavc  leave  at  times  to  play 
A-  with  the  creature  of  my  love; 


444  IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  set  thee  forth,  for  thou  art  mine, 
With  so  much  hope  for  years  to  come, 
That,  howsoe'er  I  know  thee,  some 

Could  hardly  tell  what  name  were  thine. 


LX. 


He  past:  a  soul  of  nobler  tone: 
My  spirit  loved  and  loves  him  yet, 
Like  some  poor  girl  whose  heart  is  set 

On  one  whose  rank  exceeds  her  own. 

He  mixing  with  his  proper  sphere, 
She  finds  the  baseness  of  her  lot, 
Half  jealous  of  she  knows  not  what, 

And  envying  all  that  meet  him  there. 

The  little  village  looks  forlorn: 
She  sighs  amid  her  narrow  days, 
Moving  about  the  household  ways, 

In  that  dark  house  where  she  was  born. 

The  foolish  neighbors  come  and  go, 
And  tease  her  till  the  day  draws  by : 
At  night  she  weeps,  "  How  vain  am  I ! 

How  should  he  love  a  thing  so  low  \ " 

LXI. 

If,  in  thy  second  state  sublime, 

Thy  ransom'd  reason  change  replies 
With  all  the  circle  of  the  wise, 

The  perfect  flower  of  human  time; 

And  if  thou  cast  thine  eyes  below, 
How  dimly  character'd  and  slight, 
How  dwarf 'd  a  draught  of  cold  and  night, 

How  blanch'd  with  darkness  must  I  grow! 

Yet  turn  thee  to  the  doubtful  shore, 

Where  thy  first  form  was  made  a  man; 
I  loved  thee,  Spirit,  and  love,  nor  can 

The  soul  of  Shakespeare  love  thee  more. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  445 


LXII. 

Tho'  if  an  eye  that's  downward  cast 

Could  make  thee  somewhat  blench  or  fail, 
Then  be  my  love  an  idle  tale, 

And  fading  legend  of  the  past; 

And  thou,  as  one  that  once  declined, 
When  he  was  little  more  than  hoy, 
On  some  unworthy  heart  with  joy, 

But  lives  to  wed  an  equal  mind; 

And  breathes  a  novel  world,  the  while 

His  other  passion  wholly  dies, 

Or  in  the  light  of  deeper  eyes 
Is  matter  for  a  flying  smile. 

LXIII. 

Yet  pity  for  a  horse  o'er-driven, 

And  love  in  which  my  hound  has  part, 
Can  hang  no  weight  upon  my  heart 

In  its  assumptions  up  to  heaven; 

And  I  am  so  much  more  than  these, 
As  thou,  perchance,  art  more  than  I, 
And  yet  I  spare  them  sympathy, 

And  I  would  set  their  pains  at  ease* 

So  mayst  thou  watch  me  where  I  weep, 
As  unto  vaster  motions  bound, 
The  circuits  of  thine  orbit  round 

A  higher  height,  a  deeper  deep. 

LXIV. 

Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been, 

As  some  divinely  gifted  man, 

Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 
And  on  a  simple  village  green; 

Who  breaks  his  birth's  invidious  bar, 
And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happy  chance, 


448  Jjsr  MEMORlAM. 


And  breasts  the  blows  of  circumstance, 
And  grapples  with  his  evil  star; 

Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known, 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden  keys 
To  mould  a  mighty  state's  decrees, 

And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher, 
Becomes  on  Fortune's  crowning  slope 
The  pillar  of  a  people's  hope, 

The  centre  of  a  world's  desire; 

Yet  feels,  as  in  a  pensive  dream, 

When  all  his  active  powers  are  still, 
A  distant  clearness  in  the  hill, 

A  secret  sweetness  in  the  stream, 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate, 
While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  play'd  at  counsellors  and  kings, 

With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate; 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea 
And  reaps  the  labor  of  his  hands, 
Or  in  the  furrow  musing  stands; 

"  Does  my  old  friend  remember  me? " 

LXV. 

Sweet  soul,  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt; 

I  lull  a  fancy  trouble-tost 

With  "  Love's  too  precious  to  be  lost, 
A  little  grain  shall  not  be  spilt." 

And  in  that  solace  can  I  sing, 

Till  out  of  painful  phases  wrought 
There  flutters  up  a  happy  thought, 

Self-balanc'd  on  a  lightsome  wing: 

Since  we  deserv'd  the  name  of  friends, 
And  thine  effect  so  lives  in  me, 


IN  MEMORIAM.  44' 


A  part  of  mine  may  live  in  thee, 
And  move  thee  on  to  nohle  ends. 


LXVI. 

You  thought  my  heart  too  far  diseasM; 
You  wonder  when  my  fancies  play 
To  find  me  gay  among  the  gay, 

Like  one  with  any  trifle  pleased. 

The  shade  by  whicli  my  life  was  erost, 
Which  makes  a  desert  in  the  mind, 
I  lav  made  me  kindly  with  my  kind, 

And  like  to  him  whose  sight  is  lost; 

Whose  feet  are  guided  thro1  the  land, 

Whose  jest  among  his  friends  is  free, 

Who  takes  the  children  on    his  knee. 
And  winds  their  curls  about  his  hand: 

IK'  plays  with  threads,  lie  beats  his  chair 
For  pastime,  dreaming  of  the  sky: 
His  inner  day  can  never  die-, 

His  night  of  loss  is  always  there. 

LXVII. 

When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls, 
I  know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest, 
By  that  broad  water  of  the  w 

There  comes  a  glory  on  the  walls: 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears 
As  slowly  steals  a  silver  flame 
Along  the  letters  of  thy  name, 

And  o'er  the  number  of  thy  years. 

The  mystic  glpry  swims  away: 

From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies; 
And,  closin.  f  wearied  eyes, 

I  sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  gray  : 


448  IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  then  I  know  the  mist  is  drawn 
A  lucid  veil  from  coast  to  coast, 
And  in  the  dark  church,  like  a  ghost, 

Thy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  dawn. 


LXVIII. 


When  in  the  down  I  sink  my  head, 

Sleep,  Death's  twin-brother,  times  my  breath ; 
Sleep,  Death's  twin-brother,  knows  not  Death, 

Nor  can  I  dream  of  thee  as  dead : 


I  walk  as  ere  I  walk'd  forlorn, 

When  all  our  path  was  fresh  with  dew, 
And  all  the  bugle  breezes  blew 

Reveillee  to  the  breaking  morn. 

But  what  is  this?  I  turn  about, 
I  find  a  trouble  in  thine  eye, 
Which  makes  me  sad,  I  know  not  why, 

Nor  can  my  dream  resolve  the  doubt* 

But  ere  the  lark  hath  left  the  lea 

I  wake,  and  I  discern  the  truth; 

It  is  the  trouble  of  m}^  youth 
That  foolish  sleep  transfers  to  thee. 

LXIX. 

I  dream'd  there  would  be  Spring  no  more, 
That  Nature's  ancient  power  was  lost : 
The  streets  were  black  with  smoke  and  frost, 

They  chatter'd  trifles  at  the  door: 

I  wander'd  from  the  noisy  town, 

I  found  a  wood  with  thorny  boughs: 
I  took  the  thorns  to  bind  my  brows, 

I  wore  them  like  a  civic  crown : 

I  met  with  scoffs,  I  met  with  scorns 
From  youth  and  babe  and  hoary  hairs: 
They  call'd  me  in  the  public  squares 

The  fool  that  wears  a  crown  of  thorns : 


IN  MEMORIAM.  443 


They  call'd  me  fool,  they  calPd  me  child: 
I  found  an  angel  of  the  night; 
The  voice  was  low,  the  look  was  bright; 

He  look'd  upon  my  crown  and  smiled : 


He  reach'd  the  glory  of  a  hand, 
That  seem'd  to  touch  it  into  leaf: 
The  voice  was  not  the  voice  of  grief, 

The  words  were  hard  to  understand. 

LXX. 

I  cannot  see  the  features  right, 

When  on  the  gloom  I  strive  to  paint 
The  face  I  know;  the  hues  are  faint 

And  mix  with  hollow  masks  of  night; 

Cloud-towers  by  ghostly  masons  wroug'nt, 
A  gulf  that  ever  shuts  and  gapes, 
A  hand  that  points  and  palled  shapes 

In  shadowy  thoroughfares  of  thought: 

And  crowds  that  stream  from  yawning  doors, 
And  shoals  of  pucker'd  faces  drive; 
Dark  bulks  that  tumble  half  alive, 

And  lazy  lengths  on  boundless  shores: 

Till  all  at  once  beyond  the  will 

I  hear  a  wizard  music  roll, 

And  thro'  a  lattice  on  the  soul 
Looks  thy  fair  face  and  makes  it  still. 

LXXI. 

Sleep,  kinsman,  thou  to  death  and  trance 
And  madness,  thou  hast  forged  at  last 
A«night-long  Present  of  the  Past 

In  which  we  went  thro'  summer  France. 

Hadst  thou  such  credit  with  the  soui? 
Then  bring  an  opiate  trebly  strong, 
Drug  down  the  blindfold  sense  of  wrong 

That  so  my  pleasure  may  be  whole; 


450 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


While  now  we  talk  as  once  we  talk'd 
Of  men  and  minds,  the  dust  of  change, 
The  days  that  grow  to  something  strange, 

In  walking  as  of  old  we  walk'd 


Beside  the  river's  wooded  reach, 

The  fortress  and  the  mountain  ridge, 
The  cataract  flashing  from  the  bridge, 

The  breaker  breaking  on  the  beach. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  451 


LXXII. 

Risest  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
And  howlest,  issuing  out  of  night, 
With  blasts  that  blow  the  poplar  white, 

And  lash  with  storqo  the  streaming  pane? 

Day,  when  my  crown'd  estate  begun 
To  pine  in  that  reverse  of  doom, 
Which  sicken'd  every  living  bloom, 

And  blurr'd  the  splendor  of  the  sun; 

Who  usherest  in  the  dolorous  hour 

With  thy  quick  tears  that  make  the  rose 
Pull  sideways,  and  the  daisy  close 

Her  crimson  fringes  to  the  shower; 

Who  might'st  have  heaved  a  windless  flame 
Up  the  deep  East,  or,  whispering,  play'd 
A  chequer-work  of  beam  and  shade 

Along  the  hills,  yet  looked  the  same, 

As  wan,  as  chil},  as  wild  as  now; 

Day,  mark'd  as  with  some  hideous  crime 
When  the  dark  hand  struck  down  thro1  time, 

And  cancelled  nature's  best:  but  thou, 

Lift  as  thou  may'st  thy  burthen'd  brows 
Thro'  clouds  that  drench  the  morning  star, 
And  whirl  the  ungarner'd  sheaf  afar, 

And  sow  the  sky  with  flying  boughs, 

And  up  thy  vault  with  roaring  sound 
Climb  thy  thick  noon,  disastrous  day; 
Touch  thy  dull  goal  of  joyless  gray, 

And  hide  thy  shame  beneath  the  ground, 

LXXIII. 

So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do, 
So  little  done,  such  things  to  be, 
How  know  I  what  had  need  of  thee, 

For  thou  wert  strong  as  thou  wert  true? 


452  IN  MuMORIAM. 


The  fame  is  quench'd  that  I  foresaw, 

The  head  hath  miss'd  an  earthly  wreath; 
I  curse  not  nature,  no,  nor  death; 

For  nothing  is  that  errs  from  law. 

We  pass;  the  path  that  each  man  trod 
Is  dim,  or  will  be  dim,  with  weeds: 
What  fame  is  left  for  human  deeds 

In  endless  age?     It  rests  with  God. 

0  hollow  wraith  of  dying  fame, 
Fade  wholly,  while  the  soul  exults, 
And  self-infolds  the  large  results 

Of  force  that  would  have  forged  a  name. 

LXXIV. 

As  sometimes  in  a  dead  man's  face, 
To  those  that  watch  it  more  and  more, 
A  likeness,  hardly  seen  before, 

Comes  out — to  some  one  of  his  race: 

So,  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold, 
I  see  thee  what  thou  art,  and  know 
Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  below, 

Thy  kindred  with  the  great  of  old. 

But  there  is  more  than  I  can  see, 
And  what  I  see  I  leave  unsaid, 
Nor  speak  it,  knowing  Death  has  made 

His  darkness  beautiful  with  thee. 

LXXV. 

1  leave  thy  praises  unexpress'd 

In  verse  that  brings  myself  relief, 
And  by  the  measure  of  my  grief 
I  leave  thy  greatness  to  be  guess'd : 

What  practice  howso'er  expert 
In  fitting  aptest  words  to  things, 
Or  voice  the  richest-toned  that  sings, 

Hath  power  to  give  thee  as  thou  wert? 


IN  MEMORIAM.  453 


I  care  not  in  these  fading  days 
To  raise  a  cry  that  lasts  not  long, 
And  round  thee  with  the  breeze  or  song 

To  stir  a  little  dust  of  praise. 

Thy  leaf  has  perish'd  in  the  green, 

And,  while  we  breathe  beneath  the  sun, 
The  world  which  credits  what  is  done 

Is  cold  to  all  that  might  have  been. 

So  here  shall  silence  guard  thy  fame; 
But  somewhere,  out  of  human  view, 
Whatever  thy  hands  are  set  to  do 

Is  wrought  with  tumult  of  acclaim. 

LXXVI. 

Take  wings  of  fancy,  and  ascend, 
And  in  a  moment  set  thy  face 
Where  all  the  starry  heavens  of  space 

Are  sharpened  to  a  needle's  end; 

Take  wings  of  foresight;  lighten  thro' 
The  secular  abyss  to  come, 
And  lo,  thy  deepest  lays  are  dumb 

Before  the  mouldering  of  a  yew : 

And  if  the  matin  songs,  that  woke 
The  darkness  of  our  planet,  last, 
Thine  own  shall  wither  in  the  vast, 

Ere  half  the  lifetime  of  an  oak. 

Ere  these,  have  clothed  their  branchy  bowers 
With  fifty  Mays,  thy  songs  are  vain; 
And  what  are  they  when  these  remain 

The  ruinM  shells  of  hollow  towers? 

LXXVII. 

What  hope  is  here  for  modern  rhyme 
To  him  who  turns  a  musing  eye 
On  songs,  and  deeds,  and  lives,  that  lie 

Foreshorten'd  in  the  tract  of  time? 


454  IN  MEMORIAM. 


These  mortal  lullabies  of  pain 

May  bind  a  book,  may  line  a  box, 
May  serve  to  curl  a  maiden's  locks; 

Or  when  a  thousand  moons  shall  wane 

A  man  upon  a  stall  may  find, 

And,  passing,  turn  the  page  that  tells 

A  grief,  the  unchang'd  to  something  else, 

Sung  by  a  long-forgotten  mind. 

But  what  of  that  ?     My  darken'd  ways 
Shall  ring  with  music  all  the  same; 
To  breathe  my  loss  is  more  than  fame, 

To  utter  love  more  sweet  than  praise. 

I.XXVIII. 


Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave 
The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth 
The  silent  snow  possess' d  the  earth, 

And  calmly  fell  our  Christmas  eve: 

The  yule-clog  sparkled  keen  with  frost, 
No  wing  of  wind  the  region  swept, 
But  over  all  things  brooding  slept 

The  quiet  sense  of  something  lost. 

As  in  the  winters  left  behind, 

Again  onr  ancient  games  had  place, 
The  mimic  picture's  breathing  grace, 

And  dance  and  song  and  hoodman-blind. 

Who  show'd  a  token  of  distress? 
No  single  tear,  no  mark  of  pain : 
O  sorrow,  then  can  sorrow  wane? 

O  grief,  can  grief  be  changed  to  less? 

O  last  regret,  regret  can  die! 

No — mixt  with  all  this  mystic  frame, 
Her  deep  relations  are  the  same, 

But  with  long  use  her  tears  are  dry. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  455 


LXXIX. 

"  More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me," 
Let  this  not  vex  thee,  noble  heart! 
I  know  thee  of  what  force  thou  art 

To  hold  the  costliest  love  in  fee. 

But  thou  and  I  are  one  in  kind, 
As  moulded  like  in  nature's  mint; 
And  hill  and  wood  and  field  did  print 

The  same  sweet  forms  in  either  mind. 

For  us  the  same  cold  streamlet  curlM 
Thro'  all  his  eddying  coves;  the  same 
All  winds  that  roam  the  twilight  came 

In  whispers  of  the  beauteous  world. 

At  one  dear  knee  we  proffer' d  vows, 
One  lesson  from  one  book  we  learn'd, 
Ere  childhood's  flaxen  ringlet  turn'd 

To  black  and  brown  on  kindred  brows. 

And  so  my  wealth  resembles  thine, 
But  he  was  rich  where  I  was  poor, 
And  he  supplied  my  wants  the  more 

As  his  unlikeness  fitted  mine. 

LXXX. 

If  any  vague  desire  should  rise, 
That  holy  Death  ere  Arthur  died 
Had  moved  me  kindly  from  his  side, 

And  dropt  the  dust  on  tearless  eyes; 

Then  fancy  shapes,  as  fancy  can, 

The  grief  my  loss  in  him  had  wrought, 
A  grief  as  deep  as  life  or  thought, 

But  stay'd  in  peace  with  God  and  man. 

1  make  a  picture  in  the  brain; 

I  hear  the  sentence  that  he  speaks; 

He  bears  the  burthen  of  the  weeks, 
But  turns  his  burthen  into  gain. 


456  IN  MEMORIAM. 


His  credit  thus  shall  set  me  freej 

And,  influence-rich  to  soothe  and  save, 
Unused  example  from  the  grave 

Reach  out  dead  hands  to  comfort  me. 


LXXXI. 

Could  I  have  said  while  he  was  here, 
"  My  love  shall  now  no  further  range; 
There  cannot  come  a  mellower  change, 

For  now  is  love  mature  in  ear." 

Love,  then,  had  hope  of  richer  store : 
What  end  is  here  to  my  complaint? 
This  haunting  whisper  makes  me  faint, 

"  More  years  had  made  me  love  thee  more." 

But  Death  returns  an  answer  sweet: 
"  My  sudden  frost  was  sudden  gain, 
And  gave  all  ripeness  to  the  grain 

It  might  have  drawn  from  after-heat." 

LXXXII. 

I  wage  not  any  feud  with  Death 

For  changes  wrought  on  form  and  face; 
No  lower  life  that  earth's  embrace 

May  breed  with  him  can  fright  my  faith. 

Eternal  process  moving  on, 

From  state  to  state  the  spirit  walks; 
And  these  are  but  the  shatter'd  stalks, 

Or  ruin'd  chrysalis  of  one. 

f 

Nor  blame  I  Death,  because  he  bare 
The  use  of  virtue  out  of  earth: 
I  know  transplanted  human  worth 

Will  bloom  to  profit,  otherwhere. 

For  this  alone  on  Death  I  wreak 

The  wrath  that  garners  in  my  hearty 
He  put  our  lives  so  far  apart 

We  cannot  hear  each  other  speak. 


u  Ere  these,  have  clothed  thefc  branch v  bowers." 

See  page  453. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  457 


LXXXIII. 

Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 
O  sweet  new-year  delaying  long: 
Thou  doest  expectant  nature  wrong; 

Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 

What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded  noons, 
Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place? 
Can  trouble  live  with  April  days. 

Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons? 

Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire, 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue, 
Deep  tulips  dash'd  with  fiery  dew, 

Laburnums,  dropping  wells  of  fire. 

O  thou,  new-year,  delaying  long, 
Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood, 
That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud ; 

And  flood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 

LXXXIV. 


When  I  contemplate  all  alone 

The  life  that  had  been  thine  below, 
And  fixed  my  thoughts  on  all  the  glow 

To  which  thy  crescent  would  have  grown; 

I  see.  thee  sitting  crownVl  with  good, 
A  central  warmth  diffusing  bliftS 
In  glance  and  smile,  and  clasp  and  kiss, 

On  all  the  branches  of  thy  blood; 

Thy  blood,  my  friend,  and  partly  mine; 
For  now  the  day  was  drawing  on 
When  thou  should'st  link  thy  life  with  one 

Of  mine  own  house,  and  boys  of  thine 

Had  babbled  u  Uncle"  on  my  knee; 
But  that  remorseless  iron  hour 


458  IN  MEMORIAM. 


Made  cypress  of  her  orange-flower, 
Despair  of  Hope,  and  earth  of  thee. 

I  seem  to  meet  their  least  desire, 

To  clap  their  cheeks,  to  call  them  mine. 
I  see  their  unborn  faces  shine 

Beside  the  never-lighted  fire. 

I  see  myself  an  honor'd  guest, 
Thy  partner  in  the  flowery  walk 
Of  letters,  genial  table-talk, 

Or  deep  dispute,  and  graceful  jest; 

While  now  thy  prosperous  labor  fills 
The  lips  of  men  with  honest  praise, 
And  sun  by  sun  the  happy  days 

Descend  below  the  golden  hills 

§ 

With  promise  of  a  morn  as  fair; 

And  all  the  train  of  bounteous  hours 
Conduct  by  paths  of  growing  powers, 

To  reverence  and  the  silver  hair; 

Till  slowly  worn  her  earthly  robe, 
Her  lavish  mission  richly  wrought, 
Leaving  great  legacies  of  thought, 

Thy  spirit  should  fail  from  off  the  globe; 

What  time  mine  own  might  also  flee, 
As  link'd  with  thine  in  love  and  fate, 
And,  hovering  o'er  the  dolorous  strait 

To  the  other  shore,  involv'd  in  thee. 

Arrive  at  last  the  blessed  goal 
And  He  that  died  in  Holy  Land 
Would  reach  us  out  the  shining  hand, 

And  take  us  as  a  single  soul. 

What  reed  was  that  on  which  I  leant? 
Ah,  backward  fancy,  wherefore  wake 
The  old  bitterness  again,  and  break 

The  low  beginnings  of  content? 


IN  MEMORIAM.  459 


LXXXV. 

This  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and  pall, 
I  felt  it,  when  I  sorrowed  most, 
'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all — 

O  true  in  word,  and  tried  in  deed, 
Demanding,  so  to  bring  relief 
To  this  which  is  our  common  grief, 

What  kind  of  life  is  that  I  lead; 

And  whether  trust  in  things  above 
Be  dimm'd  of  sorrow  or  sustain'd; 
And  whether  love  for  him  have  drained 

My  capabilities  of  love; 

Your  words  have  virtue  such  as  draws 
A  faithful  answer  from  the  breast, 
Thro'  light  reproaches,  half  exprest, 

And  loyal  unto  kindly  laws. 

My  blood  an  even  tenor  kept, 

Till  on  mine  ear  this  message  falls 
That  in  Vienna's  fatal  walls 

God's  finger  touch'd  him,  and  he  slept. 

The  great  Intelligences  fail- 
That  range  above  our  mortal  state. 
In  circle  round  the  blessed  gate, 

Receiv'd  and  gave  him  welcome  there; 

And  led  him  thro'  the  blissful  climes, 
And  show'd  him  in  the  fountain  fresh 
All  knowledge  that  the  sons  of  flesh 

Shall  gather  in  the  cycled  times. 

But  I  remained,  whose  hopes  were  dim, 

Whose  life,  whose  thoughts  were  little  worth, 
To  wander  on  a  darken'd  earth, 

Where  all  things  round  me  breathed  of  him. 


460  IN  MEMORIAM. 


O  friendship,  equal-pois'd  control, 

O  heart,  with  kindliest  motion  warm, 

0  sacred  essence,  other  form, 

0  solemn  ghost,  O  crowned  soul! 

Yet  none  could  better  know  than  I, 
How  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
The  sense  of  human  will  demands 

By  which  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

Whatever  way  my  days  decline, 

1  felt  and  feel  tho'  left  alone, 
His  being  working  in  mine  own, 

The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  mine; 

A  life  that  all  the  Muses  deck'd 

With  gifts  of  grace,  that  might  express 
All-comprehensive  tenderness, 

All-subtilizing-  intellect: 

And  so  my  passion  hath  not  swerv'd 
To  works  of  weakness,  but  I  find 
An  image  comforting  the  mind, 

And  in  my  grief  a  strength  reserv'd. 

Likewise  the  imaginative  woe, 

That  loved  to  handle  spiritual  strife, 
Diffused  the  shock  thro'  all  my  life, 

But  in  the  present  broke  the  blow. 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 
For  other  friends  that  once  I  met; 
Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forget 

The  mighty  hope  that  makes  us  men. 

1  woo  your  love :  I  count  it  crime 
To  mourn  for  any  overmuch; 
I,  the  divided  half  of  such 

A  friendship  as  had  master'd  Time; 

Which  masters  Time  indeed,  and  is 
Eternal,  separate  from  fears; 


IN  MEMORIAM.  461 


The  all-assuming  months  and  years, 
Can  take  no  part  away  from  this : 

But  Summer  on  the  steaming  floods, 

And  Spring  that  swells  the  narrow  brooks, 
And  Autumn,  with  a  noise  of  rooks, 

That  gather  in  the  waning  woods, 

And  every  pulse  of  wind  and  wave 
Recalls,  in  change  of  light  or  gloom. 
My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

And  my  prime  passion  in  the  grave: 

My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

A  part  of  stillness,  yearns  to  speak: 
"  Arise,  and  get  thee  forth  and  seek 

A  friendship  for  the  years  to  come. 

"I  watch  thee  from  the  quiet  shore; 

Thy  spirit  up  to  mine  can  reach; 

But  in  dear  words  of  human  speech 
We  two  communicate  no  more." 

And  I,  "  Can  clouds  of  nature  stain 
The  starry  clearness  of  the  free? 
How  is  it?      Canst  thou  feel  forme 

Some  painless  sympathy  with  pain?*' 

And  lightly  does  the  whisper  fall: 
"  *Tis  hard  for  thee  to  fathom  this: 
I  triumph  in  conclusive  bliss, 

And  that  serene  result  of  all." 

So  hold  I  commerce  with  the  dead; 

Or  so  methinks  the  dead  would  say; 

Or  so  shall  grief  with  symbols  play, 
And  pining  life  be  fancy-fed. 

Now  looking  to  some  settled  end, 

That  these  things  pass,  and  I  shall  prove 
A  meeting  somewhere,  love  with  love, 

I  crave  your  pardon,  O  my  friend ; 


4fi2 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


If  not  so  fresh,  with  love  as  true, 
I,  clasping  brother-hands,  aver 
I  could  not,  if  I  would,  transfer 

The  whole  I  felt  for  him  to  you. 

For  which  be  they  that  hold  apart 
The  promise  of  the  golden  hours? 
First  love,  first  friendship,  equal  powers, 

That  marry  with  the  virgin  heart. 

Still  mine,  that  cannot  but  deplore, 
That  beats  within  a  lonely  place, 
That  yet  remembers  his  embrace, 

But  at. his  footstep  leaps  no  more. 

My  heart,  tho'  widow'd,  may  not  rest 
Quite  in  the  love  of  what  is  gone, 
But  seeks  to  beat  in  time  with  one 

That  warms  another  living  breast. 


Ah,  take  the  imperfect  gift  I  bring, 
Knowing  the  primrose  yet  is  dear* 


IN  MEMORIAM.  463 


The  primrose  of  the  later  year, 
As  not  unlike  to  that  of  Spring. 

i 

LXXXVI. 

Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air, 
That  rollest  from  the  gorgeous  gloom 
Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 

And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 

The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below 
Thro'  all  the  dewy-tassell'd  wood, 
And  shadowing  down  the  horned  flood 

In  ripples,  fan  my  brows  and  blow 

The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 
The  full  new  life  that  feeds  thy  breath 
Throughout  my  frame,  till  Doubt  and  Death, 

111  brethren  let  the  fancy  fly 

From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 
On  leagues  of  odor  straaming  far, 
To  where  in  yonder  orient  star 

A  hundred  spirits  whisper  "  Peace." 

LXXXVII. 

I  past  beside  the  reverend  walls 
In  which  of  old  I  wore  the  gown; 
I  roved  at  random  thro'  the  town, 

And  saw  the  tumult  of  the  halls; 

And  heard  once  more  in  college  fanes 
The  storm  their  high-built  organs  make, 
And  thunder-music,  rolling,  shake 

The  prophets  blazon'd  on  the  panes; 

And  caught  once  more  the  distant  shout, 
The  measured  pulse  of  racing  oars 
Among  the  willows;  paced  the  shores 

And  many  a  bridge,  and  all  about 


464  IN  MEMORIAM. 


The  same  gray  flats  again,  and  felt 
The  same,  but  not  the  same;  and  last 
Up  that  long  walk  of  limes  I  past 

To  see  the  rooms  in  which  he  dwelt. 

Another  name  was  on  the  door: 
I  lingered;  all  within  was  noise 
Of  songs,  and  clapping  hands,  and  boys 

That  crash' d  the  glass  and  beat  the  floor; 

Where  once  we  held  debate,  a  band 
Of  youthful  friends,  on  mind  and  art, 
And  labor,  and  the  changing  mart, 

And  all  the  framework  of  the  land; 

When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair, 
But  send  it  slackly  from  the  string; 
And  one  would  pierce  an  outward  ring, 

And  one  an  inner,  here  and  there; 

And  last  the  master-bowman,  he 

Would  cleave  the  mark.     A  willing  ear 
We  lent  him.     Who,  but  hung  to  hear 

The  rapt  oration  flowing  free 

From  point  to  point,  with  power  and  grace 
And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law, 
To  those  conclusions  when  we  saw 

The  God  within  him  light  his  face, 

And  seem  to  lift  the  form,  and  glow 

In  azure  orbits  heavenly- wise; 

And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 
The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo. 

LXXXVIII. 

Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet, 
Rings  Eden  thro'  the  budded  quicks, 
O  tell  me  where  the  senses  mix, 

O  tell  me  where  the  passions  meet, 


IN  MEMOR1AM. 


465 


Whence  radiate:  fierce  extremes  employ 
Thy  spirits  in  the  darkening  leaf, 
And  in  the  midmost  heart  of  grief 

Thy  passion  clasps  a  secret  joy : 


And  I — my  harp  would  prelude  woe — 
I  cannot  all  command  the  strings: 
The  glory  of  the  sun  of  things 

Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 


.LXXXIX. 

Witch-elms  that  counterchange  the  floor 
Of  this  flat  dawn  with  dusk  and  bright; 
And  thou,  with  all  thy  breadth  and  height 

Of  foliage,  towering  sycamore; 

How  often,  hither  wandering  down, 
My  Arthur  found  your  shadows  fair, 
And  shook  to  all  the  liberal  air 

The  dust  and  din  and  steam  of  town: 


He  brought  an  eye  for  all  he  saw ; 

He  mixt  in  all  our  simple  sports; 

They  pleas'd  him,  fresh  from  broiling  courts 
And  dusty  purlieus  of  the  law. 


466  IN  MEMORIAM. 


O  joy  to  him  in  this  retreat, 
Immantled  in  ambrosial  dark, 
To  drink  the  cooler  air,  and  mark 

The  landscape  winking  thro'  the  heat: 

O  sound  to  rout  the  brood  of  cares, 
The  sweep  of  scythe  in  morning  dew, 
The  gust  that  round  the  garden  flew. 

And  tumbled  half  the  mellowing  pears! 

O  bliss,  when  all  in  circle  drawn 
About  him,  heart  and  ear  were  fed 
To  hear  him,  as  he  lay  and  read 

The  Tuscan  poet  on  the  lawn: 

Or  in  the  all-golden  afternoon 
A  guest,  or  happy  sister,  sung, 
Or  here  she  brought  the  harp  and  flung 

A  ballad  to  the  brightening  moon: 

Nor  less  it  pleased  in  livelier  moods, 
Beyond  the  bounding  hill  to  stray. 
And  break  the  livelong  summer  day 

With  banquet  in  the  distant  woods; 

Whereat  we  glanc'd  from  theme  to  theme, 
Discuss'd  the  books  to  love  or  hate, 
Or  touch'd  the  changes  of  the  state, 

Or  threaded  some  Socratic  dream* 

But  if  I  prais'd  the  busy  town, 
He  loved  to  rail  against  it  still, 
For  "  ground  in  yonder  social  mill 

We  rub  each  other's  angles  down, 

"And  merge," '  he  said,  "  in  form  and  gloss 
The  picturesque  of  man  and  man." 
We  taik'd:  the  stream  beneath  us  ran 

The  wine-flask  lying  couch'd  in  moss, 

Or  cool'd  within  the  glooming  wave 
And  last,  returning  from  afar, 


IN  MEMOR7AM.  467 


Before  the  crimson-circled  star 
Had  fall'n  into  her  father's  grave, 

And  brushing  ankle-deep  in  flowers, 
We  heard  behind  the  woodbine  veil 
The  milk  that  bubbled  in  the  pail, 

And  buzzings  of  the  honeyed  hours. 


xc. 


He  tasted  love  with  half  his  mind, 
Nor  ever  drank  the  inviolate  spring 
Where  nighest  heaven,  who  first  could  fling 

This  bitter  seed  among  mankind: 

That  could  the  dead,  whose  dying  eyes 
Were  closed  with  wail,  resume  their  life, 
They  would  but  find  in  child  and  wife 

An  iron  welcome  when  they  rise: 

'Twas  well,  indeed,  when  warm  with  wine, 
To  pledge  them  with  a  kindly  tear, 
To  talk  them  o'er,  to  wish  them  here, 

To  count  their  memories  half  divine: 

But  if  they  came  who  passed  away, 
Behold  their  brides  in  other  hands; 
The  hard  heir  strides  about  their  lands, 

And  will  not  yield  them  for  a  day. 

Yea,  tho'  their  sons  were  none  of  these, 
Not  less  the  yet-loved  sire  would  make 
Confusion  worse  than  death,  and  shake 

The  pillars  of  domestic  peace. 

Ah  dear,  but  come  thou  back  to  me: 

Whatever  change  the  years  have  wroyghl 
I  find  not  yet  one  lonely  thought 

That  cries  against  my  wish  for  thee. 


468  IN  MEMORIAM. 


XCI. 


When  rosy  plumelets  tuft  the  larch, 
And  rarely  pipes  the  mounted  thrush: 
Or  underneath  the  barren  bush 

Flits  by  the  sea-blue  bird  of  March; 

Come,  wear  the  form  by  which  I  know 
Thy  spirit  in  time  among  thy  peers; 
The  hope  of  unaccomplish'd  years 

Be  large  and  lucid  round  thy  brow. 

When  summer's  hourly-mellowing  change 
May  breathe,  with  many  roses  sweet, 
Upon  the  thousand   waves  of  wheat, 

That  ripple  round  the  lonely  grange; 

Come:  not  in  watches  of  the  night, 

But  where  the  sunbeam  broodeth  warm, 
Come,  beauteous  in  thine  after  form, 

And  like  a  finer  light  in  light. 


If  any  vision  should  reveal 

Thy  likeness,  I  might  count  it  vain, 
As  but  the  canker  of  the  brain : 

Yea,  tho'  it  spake  and  made  appeal 

To  chances  where  our  lots  were  cast 
Together  in  the  days  behind, 
I  might  but  say,  I  hear  a  wind 

Of  memory  murmuring  the  past. 

Yea,  tho'  it  spake  and  bared  to  view 
A  fact  within  the  coming  year; 
And  tho'  the  months,  revolving  near, 

Should  prove  the  phantom-warning  true, 

They  might  not  seem  thy  prophecies, 
But  spiritual  presentiments, 
And  such  refraction  of  events 

As  often  rises  ere  they  rise. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  469 


xcm. 

I  shall  not  see  thee.     Dare  I  say 
No  spirit  over  brake  the  band 
That  stays  him  from  the  native  land, 

Where  first  he  walk'd  when  clasp' d  in  clay? 

No  visual  shade  of  some  one  lost, 

But  he,  the  Spirit  himself,  may  come 
Where  all  the  nerve  of  sense  is  numb; 

Spirit  to  Spirit,  Ghost  to  Ghost. 

O,  therefore  from  thy  sightless  range 

With  gods  in  unconjectur'd  bliss, 

O,  from  the  distance  of  the  abyss 
Of  ten-fold  complicated  change, 

Descend,  and  touch,  and  enter;  hear 

The  wish  too  strong  for  words  to  name;  ' 
That  in  this  blindness  of  the  frame 

My  Ghost  may  feel  that  thine  is  near. 

xciv. 

How  pure  at  heart  and  sound  in  head, 

With  what  divine  affections  bold, 

Should  be  the  man  whose  thought  would  hold 
An  hour's  communion  with  the  dead. 

In  vain  shalt  thou,  or  any,  call 

The  spirits  from  their  golden  day, 
Except,  like  them,  thou  too  canst   say, 

My  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 

They  haunt  the  silence  of  the  breast, 

Imaginations  calm  and  fair, 

The  memory  like  a  cloudless  air, 
The  conscience  as  a  sea  at  rest: 

But  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din, 
And  doubt  beside  the  portal  waits, 
They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates, 

And  hear  the  household  jar  within. 


470  IN  MEMORIAM. 


xcv 


By  night  we  lingered  on  the  lawn, 

For  underfoot  the  herb  was  dry; 

And  genial  warmth;  and  o'er  the  sky 
The  silvery  haze  of  summer  drawn; 

And  calm  that  let  the  tapers  burn 
Unwavering;  not  a  cricket  chirr'd; 
The  brook  alone  far-off  was  heard, 

And  on  the  board  the  fluttering  urn : 

And  bats  went  round  in  fragrant  skies, 
And  wheel'd  or  lit  the  filmy  shapes 
That  haunt  the  dusk,  with  ermine  capes 

And  woolly  breasts  and  beaded  eyes* 

While  now  we  sang  old  songs  that  peal'd 

From  knoll  to  knoll,  where,  couch'd  at  ease, 
The  white  kine  glimmer'd,  and  the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field. 

But  when  those  others,  one  hv  one, 

Withdrew  themselves  from  me  and  night, 
And  in  the  house  light  after  light 

Went  out,  and  I  was  all  alone, 

A  hunger  seized  my  heart;  I  read 

Of  that  glad  year  that  once  had  been, 

In  those  fall'n  leaves  which  kept  their  green, 

The  noble  letters  of  the  dead : 

And  strangely  on  the  silence  broke 

The  silent-speaking  words,  and  strange 
Was  love's  dumb  cry  defying  change 

To  test  his  worth;  and  strangely  spoke 

The  faith,  the  vigor,  bold  to  dwell 

On  doubts  that  drive  the  coward  back, 
And  keen  thro'  wordy  snares  to  track 

Suggestion  to  her  inmost  cell. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  471 


So  word  by  word,  and  line  by  line, 

The  dead  man  touch'd  me  from  the  past. 
And  all  at  once  it  seem'd  at  last 

His  living  soul  was  flash'd  on  mine, 


And  mine  in  his  was  wound,  and  whirlM 
About  empyreal  heights  of  thought, 
And  came  on  that  which  is,  and  caught 

The  deep  pulsations  of  the  world, 

^Eonian  music  measuring  out 

The  steps  of  Time,  the  shocks  of  Chance, 
The  blows  of  Death.     At  length  my  trance 

Was  cancell'd,  stricken  thro'  with  doubt. 

Vague  words!  but  ah,  how  hard  to  frame 
In  matter-mo- tided  forms  of  speech, 
Or  ev'n  for  intellect  to  reach 

Thro'  memory  that  which  I  became: 

Till  now  the  doubtful  dusk  revealM 

The  knoll  once  more  where,  couch'd  at  ease, 
The  white  kine  glimmcr'd,  and  the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field: 

And  suck'd  from  out  the  distant  gloom, 
A  breeze  began  to  tremble  o'er 
The  large  leaves  of  the  sycamore, 

And  fluctuate  all  the  still  perfume, 

And  gathering  fleshlier  overhead, 

Rock'd  the  full-foliaged  elms,  and  swung 
The  heavy-folded  rose,  and  flung 

The  lilies  to  and  fro,  and  said, 

"  The  dawn,  the  dawn,"  and  died  away; 
And  East  and  West,  without  a  breath, 
Mixt  their  dim  lights,  like  life  and  death, 

To  broaden  into  boundless  day. 


472  IN  MEMORIAM. 


XCVI. 

You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn, 

Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light-blue  eye» 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies, 

You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I  know  not:  one  indeed  I  knew 
In  many  a  subtle  question  versed, 
Who  touch'd  a  jarring  lyre  at  first, 

But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true: 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 

At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 

There  lives  more  faith  in   honest  doubt, 
Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

He  fought  his  doubts  and  gather'd  strength, 
He  would  not  make  his  judgment  blind, 
He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind 

And  laid  them;  thus  he  came  at  length 

To  find  a  stronger  faith  his  own; 

And  Power  was  with  him  in  the  night, 
Which  makes  the  darkness  and  the  light, 

And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone, 

But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old, 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 

Altho'  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 

xcvir. 

My  love  has  talk'd  with  rocks  and  trees: 
He  finds  on  misty  mountain-ground 
His  own  vast  shadow  glory-crown  d, 

He  sees  himself  in  all  he  sees. 

Two  partners  of  a  married  life, — 

I  look'd  on  these,  and  thought  of  thee 
In  vastness  and  in  mystery, 

And  of  my  spirit  as  of  a  wife. 


*4  And  the  trees 
Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field." 

St*  page  470. 


IN  ME MORI AM.  473 


These  two — they  dwelt  with  eye  on  eye, 
Their  hearts  of  old  have  beat  in  tune, 
Their  meetings  made  December  June, 

Their  every  parting  was  to  die. 

Their  love  has  never  past  away; 
The  days  she  never  can  forget 
Are  earnest  that  he  loves  her  yet, 

Whate'er  the  faithless  people  say. 

Her  life  is  lone,  he  sits  apart, 

He  loves  her  yet,  she  will  not  weep, 
Tho'  rapt  in  matters  dark  and  deep 

He  seems  to  .slight  her  simple  heart. 

He  thrids  the  labyrinth  of  the  mind, 
He  reads  the  secret  of  the  star, 
He  seems  so  near  and  yet  so  far, 

He  looks  so  cold:  she  thinks  him  kind. 

She  keeps  the  gift  of  years  before, 
A  witherM  violet  is  her  bliss; 
She  knows  not  what  his  greatness  is: 

For  that,  for  all,  she  loves  him  more. 

For  him  she  plays,  to  him  she  sings 
Of  early  faith  and  plighted  vows; 
She  knows  but  matters  of  the  house, 

And  he,  he  knows  a  thousand  things. 

Her  faith  is  fixt  and  cannot  move, 
She  darkly  feels  him  great  and  wise, 
She  dwells  on  him  with  faithful  eyes, 

"  I  cannot  understand :    I  love." 

XCVIII. 

You  leave  us:  you  will  see  the  Rhine, 
And  those  fair  hills  I  saiPd  below, 
When  I  was  there  with  him;  and  go 

By  summer  belts  of  wheat  and  vine 


474  fj\r  MEMORIAM. 


To  where  he  breathed  his  latest  breath, 
That  City.     All  her  splendor  seems 
No  livelier  than  the  wisp  that  gleams 

On  Lethe  in  the  eyes  of  Death. 

Let  her  great  Danube  rolling  fair 
Enwind  her  isles,  unmark'd  of  me: 
I  have  not  seen,  I  will  not  see 

Vienna;  rather  dream  that  there, 

A  treble  darkness,  Evil  haunts 

The  birth,  the  bridal ;  friend  from  friend 

Is  oftener  parted,  fathers  bend 
Above  more  graves,  a  thousand  wants 

Gnar  at  the  heels  of  men,  and  prey 

By  each  cold  hearth,  and  sadness  flings 
Her  shadow  on  the  blaze  of  kings: 

And  yet  myself  have  heard  him  say, 

That  not  in  any  mother  town 

With  statelier  progress  to  and  fro 
The  double  tides  of  chariots  flow 

By  park  and  suburb  under  brown 

Of  lustier  leaves :  nor  more  content, 
He  told  me,  lives  in  any  crowd, 
When  all  is  gay  with  lamps,  and  loud 

With  sport  and  song,  in  booth  and  tent, 

Imperial  halls,  or  open  plain ; 

And  wheels  the  circled  dance,  and  breaks 

The  rocket  molten  into  flakes 
Of  crimson  or  in  emerald  rain. 


XCIX. 

Risest  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
So  loud  with  voices  of  the  birds, 
So  thick  with  lowings  of  the  herds, 

Day,  when  I  lost  the  flower  of  men; 


IN  MEMORIAM.  475 

Who  tremblest  thro'  thy  darkling  red 
On  yon  swoll'n  brook  that  bubbles  fast 


By  meadows  breathing  of  the  past, 
And  woodlands  holy  to  the  dead ; 

Who  murmurest  in  the  foliaged  eaves 
A  song  that  slights  the  coming  care, 
And  Autumn  laying  here  and  there 

A  fiery  finger  on  the  leaves; 

Who  wakenest  with  thy  balmy  breath 
To  myriads  on  the  genial  earth, 
Memories  of  bridal,  or  of  birth, 

And  unto  myriads  more,  of  death. 

O,  wheresoever  those  may  be, 
Betwixt  the  slumber  of  the  poles, 
To-day  they  count  as  kindred  souls; 

They  know  me  not,  but  mourn  with  me. 


I  climb  the  hill :  from  end  to  end 
Of  all  the  landscape  underneath, 
I  find  no  place  that  does  not  breathe 

Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend; 


476  M  MEMORIAM. 


No  gray  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold, 
Or  low  morass  and  whispering  reed, 
Or  simple  stile  from  mead  to  mead, 

Or  sheepwalk  up  the  windy  wold ; 

Nor  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw 
That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill, 
Nor  quarry  trench'd  along  the  hill, 

And  haunted  by  the  wrangling  daw; 

Nor  runlet  tinkling  from  the  rock : 
Nor  pastoral  rivulet  that  swerves 
To  left  and  right  thro'  meadowy  curves, 

That  feed  the  mothers  of  the  flock : 


But  each  has  pleased  a  kindred  eye, 
And  each  reflects  a  kindlier  day; 
And,  leaving  these,  to  pass  away, 

I  think  once  more  he  seems  to  die. 


ci. 


Unwatch'd,  the  garden  bough  shall  sway, 
The  tender  blossom  flutter  down, 
Unlov'd,  that  beech  will  gather  brown, 

This  maple  burn  itself  away; 

Unlov'd,  the  sun-flower,  shining  fair, 

Ray  round  with  flames  her  disc  of  seed, 
And  many  a  rose-carnation  feed 

With  summer  spice  the  humming  air; 

Unlov'd,  by  many  a  sandy  bar, 

The  brook  shall  babble  down  the  plain, 
At  noon,  or  when  the  lesser  wain 

Is  twisting  round  the  polar  star; 

Uncared  for,  gird  the  windy  grove, 

And  flood  the  haunts  of  hern  and  crake; 
Or  into  silver  arrows  break 

The  sailing  moon  in  creek  and  cove; 


IN  MEMORIAM.  477 


Till  from  the  garden  and   the  wild 

A  fresh  association  blow, 

And  year  by  year  the  landscape  grow, 
Familiar  to  the  stranger's  child; 

As  year  by  year  the  laborer  tills 

His  wonted  glebe,  or  lops  the  glades; 
And  year  by  year  ouu  memory  fades 

From  all  the  circle  of  the  hills. 


en. 


We  leave  the  well-beloved  place 
Where  first  we  gazed  upon  the  sky; 
The  roofs,  that  heard  our  earliest  cry, 

Will  shelter  one  of  stranger  race. 

We  go,  but  ere  we  go  from  home, 
As  down  the  garden- walks  I  move, 
Two  spirits  of  a  diverse  love 

Contend  for  loving  masterdom. 

One  whispers,  thy  boyhood  sung 

Long  since  its  matin  song,  and  heard 
The  low  love-language  of  the  bird 

In  native  hazels  tassel-hung. 

The  other  answers,  "  Yea,  but  here 
Thy  feet  have  strayed  in  after  hours 
With  thy  lost  friend  among  the  bowers, 

And  this  hath  made  then    trebly  dear." 

These  two  have  striven  half  the  day, 
And  each  prefers  his  separate  clay, 
Poor  rivals  in  a  losing  game, 

That  will  not  yield  each  other  way. 

I  turn  to  go:  my  feet  are  set 

To  leave  the  pleasant  fields  and  farms; 

They  mix  in  one  another's  arms 
To  one  pure  image  of  regret 


47$  IN  MEMORIAM. 


Oil. 

On  that  last  night  before  we  went 
From  out  the  doors  where  I  was  bred, 
I  dream'd  a  vision  of  the  dead, 

Which  left  my  after-morn  content. 

Methought  I  dwelt  within  a  hall. 
And  maidens  with  me:  distant  hills 
From  hidden  summits  fed  with  rills 

A  river  sliding  by  the  wall. 

The  hall  with  harp  and  carol  rang. 
They  sang  of  what  is  wise  and  good 
And  graceful.     In  the  centre  stood 

A  statue  veiPd,  to  which  they  sang; 

And  which,  tho'  veil'd,  was  known  to  me, 
The  shape  of  him  I  lov'd,  and  love 
Forever:  then  flew  in  a  dove 

And  brought  a  summons  from  the  sea: 

And  when  they  learnt  that  I  must  go, 
They  wept  and  wail'd,  but  led  the  way 
To  where  a  little  shallop  lay 

At  anchor  in  the  flood  below ; 

And  on  by  many  a  level  mead, 

And  shadowing  bluff  that  made  the  banks, 

We  glided  winding  under  ranks 
Of  iris,  and  the  golden  reed ; 

And  still  as  vaster  grew  the  shore, 

And  roll'd  the  floods  in  grander  space, 
The  maidens  gather'd  strength  and  grace 

And  presence,  lordlier  than  before; 

And  I  myself,  who  sat  apart 

And  watch'd  them,  wax'd  in  every  limb; 

I  felt  the  thews  of  Anakim, 
The  pulses  of  a  Titan's  heart; 


IN  MEMORIAM.  479 


As  one  would  sing  the  death  of  war, 

And  one  would  chant  the  history 
Of  that  great  race  which  is  to  be, 
And  one  the  shaping  of  a  star; 

Until  the  forward  creeping  tides 
Began  to  foam,  and  we  to  draw, 
From  deep  to  deep,  to  where  we  saw 

A  great  ship  lift  her  shining  sides. 

The  man  we  loved  was  there  on  deck, 
But  thrice  as  large  as  man  he  bent 
To  greet  us.     Up  the  side  I  went, 

And  fell  in  silence  on  his  neck: 

Whereat  those  maidens  with  one  mind 
Bewail'd  their  lot;  I  did  them  wrong: 
"  We  served  thee  here,"  they  said,  "  so  long, 

And  wilt  thou  leave  us  now  behind  ?  " 

So  wrapt  I  was,  they  could  not  win 

An  answer  from  my  lips,  but  he 

Replying,  "  Enter  likewise  ye 
And  go  with  us;"  they  enter'd  in. 

And  while  the  wind  began  to  sweep 
A  music  out  of  sheet  and  shroud, 
We  steerM  her  toward  a  crimson  cloud 

That  landlike  slept  along  the  deep. 

civ. 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ: 
The  moon  is  hid,  the  night  is  still ; 
A  single  church  below  the  hill 

Is  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist. 

A  single  peal  of  bells  below, 

That  wakens  ;it  this  hour  of  rest 

A  single  murmur  in  the  breast, 
That  these  are  not  the  bells  I  know. 


480  IN  MEMORIAM. 


Like  stranger's  voices  here  they  sound, 
In  lands  where  not  a  memory  strays, 
Nor  landmark  breathes  of  other  days, 

But  all  is  new  unhallow'd  ground. 


cv. 


This  holly  by  the  cottage-eave, 

To-night,  ungather'd,  shall  it  stand: 
We  live  within  the  stranger's  land, 

And  strangely  falls  our  Christmas-eve. 

Our  father's  dust  is  left  alone 
And  silent  under  other  snows: 
There  in  due  time  the  woodbine  blows, 

The  violet  comes,  but  we  are  gone. 

No  more  shall  wayward  grief  abuse 
The  genial  hour  with  mask  and  mime; 
For  change  of  place,  like  growth  of  time, 

Has  broke  the  bond  of  dying  use. 

Let  cares  that  petty  shadows  cast, 

By  which  our  lives  are  chiefly  proved, 
A  little  spare  the  night  I  loved, 

And  hold  it  solemn  to  the  past. 

But  let  no  footstep  beat  the  floor, 

Nor  bowl  nor  wassail  mantle  warm; 
For  who  would  keep  an  ancient  form 

Thro'  which  the  spirit  breathes  no  more? 

Be  neither  song,  nor  game,  nor  feast; 

Nor  harp  be  touch'd,  nor  flute  be  blown; 

No  dance,  no  motion,  save  alone 
What  lightens  in  the  lucid  east 

Of  rising  worlds  by  yonder  wood. 

Long  sleeps  the  summer  in  the  seed ; 

Run  out  your  measured  arcs,  and  lead 
The  closing  cycle  rich  in  good. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


481 


CVI. 


Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
Thy  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light: 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow: 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 


fc 


Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 


482  IN  MEMORIAM. 


Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease; 
Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold. 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

cvn. 

It  is  the  day  when  he  was  born, 

A  bitter  day  that  early  sank 

Behind  a  purple-frosty  bank 
Of  vapor,  leaving  night  forlorn. 

The  time  admits  not  flowers  or  leaves 
To  deck  the  banquet.     Fiercely  flies 
The  blast  of  North  and  East,  and  ice 

Makes  daggers  at  the  sharpen'd  eaves, 

And  bristles  all  the  brakes  and  thorns 
To  yon  hard  crescent,  as  she  hangs 
Above  the  wood  which  grides  and  clangs 

Its  leafless  ribs  and  iron  horns. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  488 


Together,  in  the  drifts  that  pass 

To  darken  on  the  rolling  brine 

That  breaks  the  coast.     But  fetch  the  wine, 
Arrange  the  board  and  brim  the  glass; 

Bring  in  great  logs  and  let  them  lie, 

To  make  a  solid  core  of  heat; 

Be  cheerful-minded,  talk  and  treat 
Of  all  things  ev'n  as  he  were  by; 

We  keep  the  day.     With  festal  cheer, 
With  books  and  music,  surely  we 
Will  drink  to  him  whate'er  he  be, 

And  sing  the  songs  he  lov'd  to  hear. 

CVIII. 

I  will  not  shut  me  from  my  kind, 

And,  lest  I  stiffen  into  stone, 

I  will  not  eat  my  heart  alone, 
Nor  feed  with  sighs  a  passing  wind; 


What  profit  lies  in  barren  faith, 

And  vacant  yearning,  tho'  with  might 
To  scale  the  heaven's  highest  height, 

Or  dive  below  the  wells  of  Death? 

What  find  -I  in  the  highest  place, 

But  mine  own  phantom  chanting  hymns? 
And  on  the  depths  of  Death  there  swims 

The  reflex  of  a  human  face. 

I'll  rather  take  what  fruit  may  be 
Of  sorrow  under  human  skies: 
'Tis  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise, 

Whatever  wisdom  sleep  with  thee. 


cix. 


Heart-affluence  in  discursive  talk 
From  household  fountains  never  dry; 
The  critic  clearness  of  an  eye, 

That  saw  thro'  all  the  Muses'  walk; 


484  IN  MEMORIAM. 


Seraphic  intellect  and  force 

To  seize  and  throw  the  doubts  of  man; 

Impassion'd  logic,  which  outran 
The  hearer  in  its  fiery  course; 

High  nature  amorous  of  the  good, 
But  touch'd  with  no  ascetic  gloom; 
And  passion  pure  in  snowy  bloom 

Thro'  all  the  years  of  April  bloo 

A  love  of  freedom  rarely  felt, 
Of  freedom  in  her  regal  seat 
Of  England;  not  the  schoolboy  heat, 

The  blind  hysterics  of  the  Celt; 

And  manhood  fused  with  female  grace 
In  such  a  sort,  the  child  would  twine 
A  trustful  hand,  unask'd,  in  thine, 

And  find  his  comfort  in  thy  face ; 

All  these  have  been,  and  thee  mine  eyes 
Have  look'd  on:  if  they  look'd  in  vain, 
My  shame  is  greater  who  remain, 

Nor  let  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


ex. 


Thy  converse  drew  us  with  delight, 
The  men  of  rathe  and  riper  years: 
The  feeble  soul,  a  haunt  of  fears, 

Forgot  his  weakness  in  trry  sight. 

On  thee  the  loyal-hearted  hung, 

The  proud  was  half  disarm 'd  of  pride, 
Nor  cared  the  serpent  at  thy  side 

To  flicker  with  his  double  tongue. 

The  stern  were  mild  when  thou  wert  by, 
The  flippant  put  himself  to  school 
And  heard  thee,  and  the  brazen  fool 

Was  soften'd,  and  he  knew  not  why; 


IN  MEMORIAM.  485 


While  I,  thy  dearest,  sat  apart, 

And  felt  thy  triumph  was  as  mine; 

And  lovM  them  more,  that  they  were  thine, 

The  graceful  tact,  the  Christian  art ; 

Not  mine  the  sweetness  or  the  skill, 
But  mine  the  love  that  will  not  tire, 
And,  born  of  love,  the  vague  desire 

That  spurs  an  imitative  will. 


CXI. 

The  churl  in  spirit,  up  or  down 

Along  the  scale  of  ranks,  thro'  all, 
To  him  who  grasps  a  golden  ball, 

By  blood  a  king,  at  heart  a  clown; 

The  churl  in  spirit,  howe'er  he  veil 
His  want  in  forms  for  fashion's  sake, 
Will  let  his  coltish  nature  break 

At  seasons  thro'  the  gilded  pale: 

For  who  can  always  act?  but  he, 
To  whom  a  thousand  memories  call, 
Not  being  less  but  more  than  all 

The  gentleness  he  seem'd  to  be, 

Best  seem'd  the  thing  he  was,  and  join'd 
Each  office  of  the  social  hour 
To  noble  manners,  as  the  flower 

And  native  growth  of  noble  mind; 

Nor  ever  narrowness  or  spite, 
Or  villain  fancy  fleeting  by, 
Drew  in  the  expression  of  an  eye, 

Where  God  and  Nature  met  in  light; 

And  thus  he  bore  without  abuse 

The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman, 
Defamed  by  every  charlatan, 

And  soiPd  with  all  ignoble  use. 


486  m  MEMORIAM. 


cxn. 

High  wisdom  holds  my  wisdom  less, 
That  I,  who  gaze  with  temperate  eyes 
On  glorious  insufficiencies, 

Set  light  by  narrower  perfectness. 

But  thou,  that  fillest  all  the  room 
Of  all  my  love,  art  reason  why 
I  seem  to  cast  a  careless  eye 

On  souls,  the  lesser  lords  of  doom. 

For  what  wert  thou  ?  some  novel  power 
Sprang  up  forever  at  a  touch, 
And  hope  could  never  hope  too  much, 

In  watching  thee  from  hour  to  hour, 

Large  elements  in  order  brought, 

And  tracks  of  calm  from  tempest  made, 
And  world-wide  fluctuation  sway'd 

In  vassal  tides  that  follow'd  thought. 

CXIII. 

'Tis  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise ; 
Yet  how  much  wisdom  sleeps  with  thee 
Which  not  alone  had  guided   me, 

But  serv'd  the  seasons  that  may  rise; 

For  can  I  doubt  who  knew  thee  keen 
In  intellect,  with  force  and  skill 
To  strive,  to  fashion,  to  fulfil — 

I  doubt  not  what  thou  wouldst  have  been: 

A  life  in  civic  action  warm, 

A  soul  on  highest  mission  sent, 
A  potent  voice  of  Parliament, 

A  pillar  steadfast  in  the  storm, 

Should  licens'd  boldness  gather  force, 
Becoming,  when  the  time  has  birth, 
A  lever  to  uplift  the  earth 

And  roll  it  in  another  course, 


IN  MEMORIAM.  487 


With  thousand  shocks  that  come  and  go, 
With  agonies,  with  energies, 
With  overthrowings,  nnd  with  cries, 

And  undulations  to  and  fro. 


cxiv. 

Who  loves  not  Knowledge?     Who  shall  rail 
Against  her  beauty?     May  she  mix 
With  men  and  prosper!     Who  shall   fix 

Her  pillars?     Let  her  work  prevail. 

But  on  her  forehead  sits  a  fire: 
She  sets  her  forward  countenance 
And  leaps  into  the  future  chance, 

Submitting  all  things  to  desire. 

Half-grown  as  yet,  a  child,  and  vain — 
She  cannot  fight  the  fear  of  death, 
What  is  she,  cut  from  love  and  faith, 

But  some  wild  Pallas  from   the  brain 

Of  Demons?  fiery-hot  to  burst 
All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 
For  power.     Let  her  know  her  place; 

She  is  the  second,  not  the  first. 

A  higher  hand  must  make  her  mild, 
If  all  be  not  in  vain:  and  guide 
Her  footsteps,  moving  side  by  side 

With  wisdom,  like  the  younger  child: 

For  she  is  earthly  of  the  mind, 
But  Wisdom  heavenly  of  the  soul. 
O  friend,  who  earnest  to  thy  goal 

So  early,  leaving  me  behind, 

I  would  the  great  world  grew  like  thee, 
Who  grewest  not  alone  in  power 
And  knowledge,  but  by  year  and  hour 

In  reverence  and  in  charity. 


488 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


cxv. 

Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow, 
Now  bourgeons  every  maze  of  quick 
About  the  flowering  squares,  and  thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long, 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue, 
And  drown'd  in  yonder  living  blue 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 


Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea, 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale, 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea* 


m  MEMORIAM.  480 


Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  gleaming  green,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds  that  change  their  sky 

To  build  and  brood;  that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land:  and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too;  and  my  regret 
Becomes  an  April  violet, 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 

CXVI. 

Is  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time 

That  keenlier  in  sweet  April  wakes, 
And  meets  the  year,  and  gives  and  takes 

The  colors  of  the  crescent  prime? 

Not  all:  the  songs,  the  stirring  air, 
The  life  re-orient  out  of  dust, 
Cry  thro'  the  sense  to  hearten  trust 

In  that  which  made  the  world  so  fair. 

Not  all  regret:  the  face  will  shine 
Upon  me,  while  I  muse  alone; 
And  that  dear  voice  I  once  have  know^ 

Still  speak  to  me  of  me  and  mine: 

Yet  less  of  sorrow  lives  in  me 

For  days  of  happy  commune  dead; 
Less  yearning  for  the  friendship  fled, 

Than  some  strong  bond  which  is  to  be. 

cxvn. 

O  days  and  hours,  your  work  is  this, 
To  hold  me  from  my  proper  place, 
A  little  while  from  his  embrace, 

For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss; 

That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 
Desire  of  nearness  doubly  sweet, 
And  unto  meeting  when  we  meet, 

Delight  a  hundred-fold  accrue, 


490  IN  MEMORIAM. 


For  every  grain  of  sand  that  runs, 
And  every  span  of  shade  that  steals, 
And  eveiy  kiss  of  toothed  wheels, 

And  all  the  courses  of  the  suns. 


CXVIII. 

Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time, 

The  giant  laboring  in  his  youth; 

Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truth, 
As  dying  Nature's  earth  and  lime; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day, 
For  ever  nobler  ends.     They  say, 

The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began, 

And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms, 
The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms, 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man; 

Who  throve  and  branch'd  from  clime  to  clime, 

The  herald  of  a  higher  race, 

And  of  himself  in  higher  place, 
If  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more; 
Or,  crown'd  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course,  and  show 

That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore, 

♦ 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom, 
And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears, 
And  dipt  in  baths  of  hissing  tears, 

And  batter'd  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.     Arise  and  fly 
The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast, 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die, 


/.v  MBMORIAM.  491 


CXIX. 

Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 
So  quickly,  not  as  one  that  weeps 
I  come  once  more;  the  city  sleeps; 

I  smell  the  meadow  in  the  street  ; 

I  hear  a  chirp  of  birds;  I 

Betwixt  the  black  fronts  long-withdrawn 
A  light-blue  lane  of  early  dawn, 

And  think  of  early  days  and    thee, 

And  bless  thee,  tor  thy  lips  are  bland, 
And  bright  the  friendship  <>f  thine  eye: 
And  in  my  thoughts  with  scarce  a  sigh 

I  take  the  pressure  of  thine  hand. 

cxx. 

I  trust  I  have  not  wasted  breath; 
I  think  we  are  not  wholly  brain, 
Magnetic  mockeries;  not  in  vain, 

Like  Paul  with  beasts,  I  fought  with  Death; 

Not  only  cunning  casts  in  clay: 

Let  Science  prove  we  are,  and  then 
What  matters  Science  unto  men, 

At  least  tome?     I  would  not  stay. 

Le!.  him,  the  wiser  man  who  sprin^ 
Hereafter,  up  from  childhood  shape 
His  action,  like  the  greater  ape, 

But  I  was  born  to  other  things. 

CXXI. 

Sad  Ilesper  o'er  the  buried  sun, 
And  ready,  thou,  to  die  with  him 
Thou  watchest  all  things  ever  dim 

And  dimmer,  and  a  glory  done; 


492 


IN  MEMORIAM 


The  team  is  loosen'd  from  the  wain, 
The  boat  is  drawn  upon  the  shore ; 
Thou  listenest  to  the  closing  door, 

And  life  is  darken'd  in  the  brain. 


Bright  Phosphor,  fresher  for  the  night, 
By  thee  the  world's  great  work  is  heard 
Beginning,  and  the  wakeful  bird; 

Behind  thee  comes  the  greater  light: 

The  market  boat  is  on  the  stream, 
And  voices  hail  it  from  the  brink; 
Thou  hear'st  the  village  hammer  clink, 

And  see'st  the  moving  of  the  team. 


Sweet  Hesper-Phosphor,  double  name 
For  what  is  one,  the  first,  the  last, 
Thou,  like  my  present  and  my  past, 

Thy  place  is  changed;  thou  art  the  same. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  493 


CXX1I. 

O,  wast  thou  with  me,  dearest,  then, 
While  I  rose  up  against  my  doom, 
And  yearn'd  to  burst  the  folded  gloom, 

To  bare  the  eternal  Heavens  again, 

To  feel  once  more,  in  placid  awe, 

The  strong  imagination  roll 

A  sphere  of  stars  about  my  soul, 
In  all  her  motion  one  with  law. 

If  thou  wert  with  me,  and  the  grave 

Divide  us  not,  be  with   me  now, 

And  enter  in  at  breast  and  brow, 
Till  all  my  blood,  a  fuller  wave, 

Be  quicken'd  with  a  livelier  breath, 

And  live  an  inconsiderate  boy, 

As  in  the  former  Hash  of  joy, 
I  slip  the  thoughts  of  life  and  death; 

And  all  the  breeze  of  Fancy  blows, 
And  every  dew-drop  paints  a  bow,   ' 
The  wizard  lightnings  deeply  glow, 

And  every  thought  breaks  out  a  rose. 

exxm. 

There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree. 
O  earth,  what  changes  thou  hast  wenl 
There  where  the  long  street  roars,  hath  been 

The  stillness  of  the  central  sea. 

The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 
From  form  to  form,  and  nothing  stands, 
They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands, 

Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves  and  go. 

But  in  my  spirit  will   I  dwell, 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it  true; 

For  tho'  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 
I  cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 


494  IN  MEMORIAM. 


CXXIV. 

That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless; 

Our  dearest  faith;  our  ghastliest  doubt; 

He,  They,  One,  All;  within,  without; 
The  Power  in  darkness  whom  we  guess; 

i  found  Him  not  in  world  or  sun, 
Or  eagle's  wing,  or  insect's  eye; 
Nor  thro'  the  questions  men  inay  try, 

The  petty  cobwebs  we  have  spun: 

If  e'er  when  faith  had  fall'n  asleep, 
I  heard  a  voice,  u  Believe  no  more," 
And  heard  an  ever-breaking  shore 

That  tumbled  in  the  Godless  deep; 

A  warmth  within  the  breast  would  melt 
The  freezing  reasons'  colder  part, 
And  like  a  man  in  wrath  the  heart 

Stood  up  and  answer'd,  "  I  have  felt." 

No,  like  a  child  in  doubt  and  fear: 

But  that  blind  clamor  made  me  wise; 
Then  was  I  as  a  child  that  cries, 

But,  crying,  knows  his  father  near; 

And  what  I  am  beheld  again 

What  is,  and  no  man  understands; 
And  out  of  darkness  came  the  hands 

That  reach  thro'  nature,  moulding  men. 

cxxv. 

Whatever  I  have  said  or  sung, 

Some  bitter  notes  my  harp  would  give, 
Yea,  tho'  there  often  seem'd  to  live 

A  contradiction  on  the  tongue, 

Yet  Hope  had  never  lost  her  youth: 
She  did  but  look  thro'  dimmer  eyes; 
Or  Love  but  play'd  with  gracious  lies 

Because  he  felt  so  fix'd  in  truth: 


IN  MEMORIAM.  495 


And  if  the  song  were  full  of  care, 
He  breathed  the  spirit  of  the  song; 
And  if  the  words  were  sweet  and  strong, 

He  set  his  royal  signet  there; 

Abiding  with  me  till  I  sail 

To  seek  thee  on  the  mystic  deeps, 
And  this  electric  force,  that  keeps 

A  thousand  pulses  dancing,  fail. 

CXXVI. 

Love  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King, 
And  in  his  presence  I  attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend, 

Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  King  and  Lord, 
And  will  be,  tho'  as  yet  I  keep 
Within  his  court  on  earth,  and  sleep 

Encompass'd  by  his  faithful  guard, 

And  hear  at  times  a  sentinel 

Who  moves  about  from  place  to  place, 
And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space, 

In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well. 

cxxvu. 

And  all  is  well,  tho'  faith  and  form 
Be  sunderM  in  the  night  of  fear; 
Well  roars  the  storm  to  those  that  hear 

A  deeper  voice  across  the  storm, 

Proclaiming  social  truth  shall  spread, 
And  justice,  e'en  tho'  thrice  again 
The  red  fool-fury  of  the  Seine 

Should  pile  her  barricades  with  dead. 

But  ill  for  him  that  wears  a  crown, 
And  him,  the  lazar,  in  his  rags: 
They  tremble,  the  sustaining  crags; 

The  spires  of  ice  are  toppled  down, 


496  IN  MBMORIAM. 


And  molten  up,  and  roar  in  flood; 
The  fortress  crashes  from  on  high, 
The  brute  earth  lightens  to  the  sky, 

And  the  great  ./Eon  sinks  in  blood, 

And  compass'd  by  the  fires  of  Hell; 
While  thou,  dear  spirit,  happy  star, 
O'erlook'st  the  tumult  from  afar, 

And  smilest,  knowing  all  is  well. 

CXXVIII. 


The  love  that  rose  on  stronger  wings, 
Unpalsied  when  we  met  with  Death, 
Is  comrade  of  the  lesser  faith 

That  sees  the  course  of  human  things. 

No  doubt  vast  eddies  in  the  flood 
.  Of  onward  time  shall  yet  be  made, 

And  throned  races  may  degrade; 
Yet,  O  ye  mysteries  of  good, 

Wild  Hours  that  fly  with  Hope  and  Fear, 
If  all  your  office  had  to  do 
With  old  results  that  look  like  new; 

If  this  were  all  your  mission  here, 

To  draw,  to  sheathe  a  useless  sword, 
To  fool  the  crowd  with  glorious  lies, 
To  cleave  a  creed  in  sects  and  cries, 

To  change  the  bearing  of  a  word, 

To  shift  an  arbitrary  power, 

To  cramp  the  student  at  his  death, 
To  make  old  bareness  picturesque 

And  tuft  with  grass  a  feudal  tower; 

Why  then  my  scorn  might  well  descend 
On  you  and  yours.     1  see  in  part 
That  all,  as  in  some  piece  of  art, 

Is  toil  co-operant  to  an  end. 


IN  MEMORIAAf.  497 


CXXI\. 

Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire, 
So  far,  so  near  in  woe  and  weal; 
O  loved  the  most,  when  most  I  feel 

There  is  a  lower  and  a  higher; 

Known  and   unknown;  human,  divine; 

Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and  eye; 

Dear  heavenly  friend  that  canst  not  die 
Mine,  mine,  forever,  ever  mine; 

Strange  friend,  past,  present,  and  to  be; 

Loved  deeplier,  darklicr  understood; 

Behold,  I  dream  a  dream  of  good, 
And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 


exxx. 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air  J 
I  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run ; 
Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 

And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou  then?     I  cannot  guess; 
But  tho'  I  seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  diffusive  power, 

1  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less: 


498  IN  MEMORIAM. 


My  love  involves  the  love  before; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now; 

Tho'  mix'd  with  God  and  Nature  thou, 
I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh ; 

I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice; 

I  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice; 
I  shall  not  lose  thee  tho'  I  die. 

CXXXI. 

O  living  will  that  shalt  enaure 

When  all  that  seems  shall  suffer  shock, 
Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock, 

Flow  thro'  our  deeds  and  make  them  pure, 

That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 
A  voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 
A  cry  above  the  conquer'd  years 

To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trusts, 

With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control, 
The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved, 

And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 


O  true  and  tried,  so  well  and  long, 

Demand  not  thou  a  marriage  lay; 

In  that  it  is  thy  marriage  day 
Is  music  more  than  any  song. 

Nor  have  I  felt  so  much  of  bliss 
Since  first  he  told  me  that  he  loved 
A  daughter  of  our  house;  nor  proved 

Since  that  dark  day  a  day  like  this: 

Tho'  I  since  then  have  number'd  o'er 

Some  thrice  three  years:  they  went  and  came, 
Remade  the  blood  and  chang'd  the  frame, 

And  yet  is  love  not  less,  but  more ; 


IN  MEMORIAM.  499 


No  longer  caring  to  embalm 
In  dying  songs  a  dead  regret, 
But  like  a  statue  solid-set, 

And  moulded  in  colossal  calm. 

Regret  is  dead,  but  love  is  more 

Than  in  the  summers  that  are  flown, 
For  I  myself  with  these  have  grown 

To  something  greater  than  before; 

Which  makes  appear  the  songs  I  made 
As  echoes  out  of  weaker  times, 
As  half  but  idle  brawling  rhymes, 

The  sport  of  random  sun  and  shade. 

But  where  is  she,  the  bridal  flower, 
That  must  be  made  a  wife  ere  noon? 
She  enters,  glowing  like  the  moon 

Of  Eden  on  its  bridal  bower: 

On  me  she  bends  her  blissful  eyes, 

And  then  on  thee ;  they  meet  thy  look 
And  brighten  like-  the  star  that  shook 

Betwixt  the  palms  of  paradise. 

O  when  her  life  was  yet  in  bud, 
He  too  foretold  the  perfect  rose. 
For  thee  she  grew,  for  thee  she  grows 

Forever,  and  as  fair  as  good. 

And  thou  art  worthy;  full  of  power; 
As  gentle;  liberal-minded,  great, 
Consistent;  wearing  all  that  weight 

Of  learning  lightly  like  a  flower. 

But  now  set  out:  the  moon  is  near, 
And  I  must  give  away  the  bride; 
She  fears  not,  or  with  thee  beside 

And  me  behind  her,  will  not  fear: 

For  I  that  danced  her  on  my  knee, 
That  watch'd  her  on  her  nurse's  arm, 


500 


IN  MEMORfAM. 


That  shielded  all  her  life  from  harm, 
At  last  must  part  with  her  to  thee; 

Now  waiting  to  be  made  a  wife, 
Her  feet,  my  darling,  on  the  dead; 
Their  pensive  tablets  round  her  head, 

And  the  most  living  words  of  life 


Breathed  in  her  ear.     The  ring  is  on, 
The  "  wilt  thou  "  answer'd,  and  again 
The  «  wilt  thou  "  ask'd,  till  out  of  twain 

Her  sweet  "  I  will "  has  made  ye  one, 


Now  sign  your  names,  which  shall  be  read, 
Mute  symbols  of  a  joyful  morn, 
By  village  eyes  as  yet  unborn; 

The  names  are  sign'd^  and  overhead 


IN  MEMOR1AM  501 


Begins  the  clash  and  clang  that  tells 
The  joy  to  every  wandering  breeze, 
The  blind  wall  rocks,  and  on  the  trees 

The  dead  leaf  trembles  to  the  bells. 

O  happy  hour,  and  happier  hours 
Await  them.      Many  a  merry  face 
Salutes  them — maidens  of  the  place, 

That  pelt  us  in  the  porch  with  flowers. 

O  happy  hour,  behold  the  bride 

With  him  to  whom  her  hand  I  gave. 
They  leave  the  porch,  they  pass  the  grave 

That  has  to-day  its  sunny  side. 

To-day  the  grave  is  bright  for  me, 
For  them  the  light  of  life  increas'd, 
Who  stay  to  share  the  morning  feast, 

Who  rest  to-night  beside  the  sea. 

Let  all  my  genial  spirits  advance 
To  meet  and  greet  a  whiter  sun; 
My  drooping  memory  will  not  shun 

The  foaming  grape  of  eastern  France. 

It  circles  round,  and  fancy  plays, 

And  hearts  are  warm'd,  and  faces  bloom, 
As  drinking  health  to  bride  and  groom 

We  wish  them  store  of  happy  days. 

Nor  count  me  all  to  blame  if  I 
Conjecture  of  a  stiller  guest, 
Perchance,  perchance,  among  the  rest, 

And,  tho'  in  silence,  wishing  joy. 

But  they  must  go,  the  time  draws  on, 
And  those  white-favorM  horses  wait; 
They  rise,  but  linger;  it  is  late; 

Farewell,  we  kiss,  and  they  are  gone. 

A  shade  falls  on  us  like  the  dark 
From  little  cloudlets  on  the  grass, 


502  IN  MEMORIAM. 


But  sweeps  away  as  out  we  pass 
To  range  the  woods,  to  roam  the  park, 

Discussing  how  their  courtship  grew, 
And  talk  of  others  that  are  wed, 
And  how  she  look'd,  and  what  she  said, 

And  back  we  come  at  fall  of  dew. 

Again  the  feast,  the  speech,  the  glee, 

The  shade  of  passing  thought,  the  wealth 
Of  words  and  wit,  the  double  health, 

The  crowning  cup,  the  three-times-three, 

And  last  the  dance; — till  I  retire: 

Dumb  is  that  tower  which  spake  so  loud, 
And  high  in  heaven  the  streaming  cloud, 

And  on  the  downs  a  rising  fire : 

And  rise,  O  moon,  from  yonder  down, 

Till  over  down  and  over  dale 

All  night  the  shining  vapor  sail 
And  pass  the  silent-lighted  town, 

The  white-faced  halls,  the  glancing  rills, 
And  catch  at  every  mountain  head, 
And  o'er  the  friths  that  branch  and  spread 

Their  sleeping  silver  thro'  the  hills; 

And  touch  with  shade  the  bridal  doors, 
With  tender  gloom  the  roof,  the  wall; 
And  breaking  let  the  splendor  fall 

To  spangle  all  the  happy  shores 

By  which  they  rest,  and  ocean  sounds, 
And,  star  and  system  rolling  past, 
A  soul  shall  draw  from  out  the  vast 

And  strike  his  being  into  bounds, 

And,  mov'd  thro'  life  of  lower  phase, 
Result  in  man  be  born  and  think, 
And  act  and  love,  a  closer  link 

Betwixt  us  and  the  crowning  race 


IN  MEMORIAM.  503 


Of  those  that,  eye  to  eye,  shall  look 

On  knowledge;  under  whose  command 
Is  Earth  and  Earth's,  and  in  their  hand 

Is  Nature  like  an  open  book; 

No  longer  half-akin  to  brute, 

For  all  we  thought  and  loved  and  did, 
And  hoped,  and  suffered,  is  but  seed 

Of  what  in  them  is  flower  and  fruit; 

Whereof  the  man,  that  with  me  trod 
This  planet,  was  a  noble  type 
Appearing  ere  the  times  were  ripe, 

That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God, 

That  God,  which  ever  lives  and  loves, 
One  God,  one  law,  one  element, 
And  one  far-off  divine  event, 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 


THE   DUKE   OF  WELLINGTON. 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON 


505 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 


gURY  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation, 
Let  U8 bury  the    (neat  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  ■  mighty 

nation, 

Mourning  when  their  leaders  tall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall. 

And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and    hall. 


While  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we  deplore? 
Here,  in  streaming  London's  central  roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought   for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  foughl  tor, 

Echo  round  his  bones  forevermore. 

Lead  out  the  pageant:  sad  and  slow, 

As  fits  a  universal   woe, 

Let  the  long,  long  procession  go, 

And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it  grow, 

And  let  the  mournful  martial  music-   blow; 

The  last  great  Englishman  is   low. 


Mourn,  for  to  us  lie  seem-  the  last, 

Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the  Past 

No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  lie  greet 
With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street 
O  friends,  our  chief  Mate-oracle  is  dead: 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring  blood, 
The  statesman-warrior,  mode-rate-,  resolute, 

Whole  in  himself,  a  common    good. 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 
Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 
Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 
Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 
Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 
Rich  in  saving  common-sense, 


506  ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON 

And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 

In  his  simplicity  sublime. 

O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 

O  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men  drew, 

O  iron  nerve  to  trie  occasion  true, 

O  fall'n  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 

Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds  that  blew! 

Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 

The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 

The  great  World-victor's  victor  will  be  seen  no  more. 

All  is  over  and  done: 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

England,  for  thy  son. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 

That  shines  over  city  and  river, 

There  he  shall  rest  forever 

Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd : 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds: 

Bright  let  it  be  with  his  blazon'd  deeds, 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd: 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be  knoll'd ; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem  roll'd 

Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross; 

And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his  loss; 

He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 

For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 

His  captain's-ear  has  heard  them  boom 

Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom: 

When  he  with  those  deep  voices  wrought, 

Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame; 

With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  captain  taught 

The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 

In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 

Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 

In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 

A  man  of  well-attemper' d  frame. 

O  civic  Muse,  to  such  a  name, 


£,%•; 


SSssr'MW'^wvi.. 


"Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew.' 


ODE  OX  THE  DEATH  OF  TUB  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON.         50r 


To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 
To  such  a  name, 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame, 
And  ever-ringing  avenues  of  song. 

Who  is  he  that  comcth,  like  an  honor1  d   gu. 

With  banner  and  with  music,  with  soldier  and  with  priest 

With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on  my  rest? 

Mighty  Seaman,  this   is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 

Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  famous  man, 

The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began. 

Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 

To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes; 

For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea; 

His  foes  were  thine;  he  kept  us  free; 

O  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he, 

Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 

And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee; 

For  this  is  England's  greatest  son, 

He  thatgain'd  a  hundred  fights, 

Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun; 

This  is  he  that  far  away 

Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 

Clash'd  with  his  fiery  few  and  won; 

And  underneath  another  sun, 

Warring  on  a  later  day, 

Round  affrighted   Lisbon  drew 

The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 

Of  his  labor'd  rampart-lines, 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay, 

Whence  he  issued  forth  anew, 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 

Back  to   France  her  banded  swarms, 

Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 

Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 

Past  the  Pyrencan  pines, 

Followed  up  in  valley  and  glen 

With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men, 

Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 

And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 

Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 


508  ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 

In  anger,  wheel'd  on  Europe-shadowing  wings, 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings; 

Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty's  iron  crown 

On  that  loud  Sabbath  shook  the  spoiler  down; 

A  day  of  onsets  of  despair! 

Dash'd  on  every  rocky  square 

Their  surging  charges  foam'd  themselves  away; 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew; 

Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 

Heaven  flash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray, 

And  down  we  swept  and  charg'd  and  overthrew 

So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there, 

What  long-enduring  heart  could  do 

In  that  world-earthquake,  Waterloo! 

Mighty  Seaman,  tender  and  true, 

And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  guile, 

O  Savior  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 

O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 

If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 

Touch  spirit  among  things  divine, 

If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all, 

Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by  thine! 

And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's  voice 

In  full  acclaim, 

A  people's  voice, 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 

A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 

With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 

Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 

A  people's  voice!  we  are  a  people  yet. 
Tho'  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams  forget, 
Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless  Powers; 
Thank  Him  who  isled  us  here,  and  roughly  set 
His  Saxon  in  blown  seas  and  storming  showers, 
We  have  a  voice,  with  which  to  pay  the  debt 
Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  regret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept  it  ours. 
And  keep  it  ours,  O  God,  from  brute  control; 
O  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye,  the  soul 
Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England  whole, 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom  sown 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF   WELLINGTON.  509 

Betwixt  a  people  and  their  ancient  throne, 

That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there  springs 

Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings; 

For,  saving  that,  ye  help  t<>  Mr  e  mankind 

Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust, 

And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march  of  mind, 

Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns  be  just. 

But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust 

Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts; 

He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 

Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward  wall; 

His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 

Forever;  and  whatever  tempests  lower 

Forever  silent;  even  if  they  broke 

In  thunder,  silent;  yet  remember  all 

He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who  spoke; 

Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the  hour, 

Nor  palter' d  with  Eternal  God  for  power; 

Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumor  flow 

Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high  and  low; 

Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language  rife 

With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life; 

Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe; 

Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one  rebuke 

All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the  right: 

Truth-teller  was  our  England's  Alfred  named; 

Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke; 

Whatever  record  leap  to  light 

He  never  shall  be  shamed. 

Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 

Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 

Follow'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 

He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 

Lavish  Honor  shower'd  all  her  star-. 

And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn. 

Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 

Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great, 

But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island-story, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory : 

He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 

For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 

Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes, 

He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 


510  ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 

Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 

All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory: 

He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 

On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands, 

Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has  won 

His  path  upward,  and  prevail' d, 

Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty  scaled 

Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 

To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and  sun. 

Such  was  he :  his  work  is  done. 

But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure, 

Let  his  great  example  stand 

Colossal,  seen  of  every  land, 

And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman  pure: 

Till  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human  story 

The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory : 

And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved  from  shame 

For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

And  when  the  long-illumined  cities  flame, 

Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame, 

With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 

Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 

Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 

By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 

Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see: 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung: 

O  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one,  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and  brain 

Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  hung. 

Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain! 

More  than  is  of  man's  degree 

Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 

At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 

Whom  we  see  not  we  revere. 

We  revere,  and  we  refrain 

From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 

And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 

For  such  a  wild  humility 

As  befits  a  solemn  fane: 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON.         511 

We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 
The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 
Setting  toward  eternity, 
Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 
Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 
There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 
Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 
And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 
For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 
And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 
Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will; 
Tho'  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads  roll 
Round  us,  each  with  different  powers, 
And  other  forms  of  life  than  our-. 
What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ? 
On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our  trust. 
Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  people's  ears: 
The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are  sobs  and  tears: 
The  black  earth  yawns:  the  mortal  disappears; 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust; 
He  is  gone  who  seem'd  so  great. — 
Gone;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 
Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  in  state, 
And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 
Thun  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave  him. 
But  speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 
Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 
And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 
1852. 


MAUD. 


515 


MAUD:    A  MONODRAMA. 


HATE  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the  little  wood, 
Its  lips  in  the  field   above  are  dabbled   with   blood-ml 

heat 
The  red  ribb'd  ledges  drip  with  a  silent  horror  of  blood, 
And     Echo    there,   whatever    is    ask\r-    her,    answers 

«  Death." 


For  there  in  the  ghastly  pit  long  since  a  body  was  found, 
His  who  had  given  me  life — O  father!  O  God!  was  it  well? — 
Mangled,  and  flatten'd,  and  crush'd,  and  dinted  into  the  ground 
There  yet  lies  the  rock  that  fell  with  him  when  he  fell 

Did  he  fling  himself  down?  who  knows?  for  a  vast  speculation  had 

faiPd, 
And  ever  he  mutter'd  and  madden'd,  and  everwann'd  with  despair, 
And  out  he  walk'd  when  the  wind  like  a  broken  worldling  wailM 
And  the  flying  gold  of  the  ruin'd  woodlands  drove  thro'  the  air. 


I  remember  the  time,  for  the  roots  of  my  hair  were  stirr'd 
By  a  shuffled  step,  by  a  dead  weight  trail'd,  by  a  whisper'd  fright, 
And  my  pulses  closed  their  gates  with  a  shock  on  my  heart  as  I  heard 
The  shrill-edg'd  shriek  of  a  mother  divide  the  shuddering  night. 

Villany  somewhere!     whose?     One  says,  we  are  villains  all. 
Not  he:  his  honest  fame  should  at  least  by  me  be  maintained: 
But  that  old  man,  now  lord  of  the  broad  estate  and  the  Hall, 
Dropt  off  gorged  from  a  scheme  that  had  left  us  flaccid  and  drain'd. 


Why  do  they  prate  of  the  blessings  of  Peace?    we  have  made   them  a 

curse, 
Pickpockets,  each  hand  lusting  for  all  that  is  not  its  own; 
And  lust  of  gain,  in  the  spirit  of  Cain,  is  it  better  or  worse 
Than  the  heart  of  the  citizen  hissing  in  war  on  his  own  hearthstone? 


516  MAUD. 


But  these  are  the  days  of  advance,  the  works  of  the  men  of  mind. 
When  who  but  a  fool  would  have  faith  in  a  tradesman's  ware  or  his  word? 
Is  it  peace  or  war?     Civil  war,  as  I  think,  and  that  of  a  kind 
The  viler,  as  underhand,  not  openly  bearing  the  sword. 

Sooner  or  later  I  too  may  passively  take  the  print 

Of  the  golden  age — why  not?     I  have  neither  hope  nor  trust; 

May  make  my  heart  as  a  millstone,  set  my  face  as  a  flint, 

Cheat  and  be  cheated,  and  die:  who  knows?  we  are  ashes  and  dust. 

Peace  sitting  under  her  olive,  and  slurring  the  days  gone  by, 

When  the  poor  are  hovell'd  and  hustled  together,  each  sex,  like  swine, 

When  only  the  ledger  lives,  and  when  only  not  all  men  lie; 

Peace  in  her  vineyard — yes! — but  a  company  forges  the  wine. 

And  the  vitriol  madness  flushes  up  in  the  ruffian's  head, 
Till  the  filthy  by-lane  rings  to  the  yell  of  the  trampled  wife, 
While  chalk  and  alum  and  plaster  are  sold  to  the  poor  for  bread, 
And  the  spirit  of  murder  works  in  the  very  means  of  life. 

And  Sleep  must  lie  down  arm'd,  for  the  villanous  centre-bits 
Grind  on  the  wakeful  ear  in  the  hush  of  the  moonless  nights, 
While  another  is  cheating  the  sick  of  a  few  last  gasps,  as  he  sits 
To  pestle  a  poison'd  poison  behind  his  crimson  lights. 

When  a  Mammonite  mother  kills  her  babe  for  a  burial  fee, 
And  Timour-Mammon  grins  on  a  pile  of  children's  bones, 
Is  it  peace  or  war?  better,  war!  loud  war  by  land  and  by  sea, 
War  with  a  thousand  battles,  and  shaking  a  hundred  thrones. 

For  I  trust  if  an  enemy's  fleet  came  yonder  round  by  the  hill, 

And  the  rushing  battle-bolt  sang  from  the  three-decker  out  of  the  foam, 

That  the  smooth-faced  snub-nosed  rogue  would  leap  from  his   counter  and 

till, 
And  strike,  if  he  could,  were  it  but  with  his  cheating  yardwand,  home — 

What!  am  I  raging  alone  as  my  father  raged  in  his  mood? 
Must  /  too  creep  to  the  hollow  and  dash  myself  down  and  die 
Rather  than  hold  by  the  law  that  I  made,  nevermore  to  brood 
On  a  horror  of  shatter'd  limbs  and  a  wretch'd  swindler's  lie? 

Would  there  be  sorrow  for  me  ?  there  was  love  in  the  passionate  shriek, 
Love  for  the  silent  thing  that  had  made  false  haste  to  the  grave — 


MAUD. 


517 


Wrapt  in  a  cloak,  as  I  saw  him,  and  thought  he  would  rise  and  speak 
And  rave  at  the  lie  and  the  liar,  ah  God,  as  he  used  to  rave. 


I  am  sick  of  the  Hall  and  the  hill,  I  am  sick  of  the  moor  and  the  main. 
Why  should  I  ttay?   ran  ;i  sweeter  chance  ever  Cpme  to  me  here? 
O,  having  the  nerves  uf  motion  as  well  as  the  nerves  of  pain, 
Were  it  not  wise  if  I  fled  from  the  place  and  the  pit  and  the  feat  : 


There  are  workmen  up  at  the  Hall:    they  are  coming  hack  from  abroad; 
The  dark  old  place  will  he  gilt  by  the  touch  of  a  millionaire: 
I  have  heard,  I  know  not  whence,  of  the  singular  beauty  of  Maud; 
I  plavM  with  the  girl  when  a  child;  she  promised  then  to  be  fair. 


Maud  with  her  venturous  climbings  and  tumbles  and  childish  escapes, 
Maud  the  delight  of  the  village,  the  ringing  joy  of  the  Hall, 
Maud  with  her  sweet  purse-mouth  when  my  father  dangled  the  grapes, 
Maud  the  beloved  of  my  mother,  the  moon-faced  darling  of  all, — 


518  MAUD. 


What  is  she  now?     My  dreams  are  bad.     She  may  bring  me  a  curse. 
No,  there  is  fatter  game  on  the  moor;  she  will  let  me  alone. 
Thanks,  for  the  fiend  best  knows  whether  woman  or  man  be  the  worse. 
I  will  bury  myself  in  my  books,  and  the  Devil  may  pipe  to  his  own. 


ii. 


Long  have  I  sigh'd  for  a  calm:  God  grant  I  may  find  it  tit  last! 

It  will  never  be  broken  by  Maud,  she  has  neither  savor  nor  salt, 

But  a  cold  and  clear-cut  face,  as  I  found  when  her  carriage  past, 

Perfectly  beautiful:  let  it  be  granted  her:  where  is  the  fault? 

All  that  I  saw  (for  her  eyes  were  downcast,  not  to  be  seen) 

Faultily  faultless,  icily  regular,  splendidly  null, 

Dead  perfection,  no  more;  nothing  more,  if  it  had  not  been 

For  a  chance  of  travel,  a  paleness,  an  hour's  defect  of  the  rose, 

Or  an  underlip,  you  may  call  it  a  little  too  ripe,  too  full, 

Or  the  least  little  delicate  aquiline  curve  in  a  sensitive  nose, 

From  which  I  escaped  heart-free,  with  the  least  little  touch  of  spleen. 


in. 


Cold  and  clear-cut  face,  why  come  you  so  cruelly  meek, 
Breaking  a  slumber  in  which  all  spleenful  folly  was  drown'd, 
Pale  with  the  golden  beam  of  an  eyelash  dead  on  the  cheek, 
Passionless,  pale,  cold  face,  star-sweet  on  a  gloom  profound; 
Womanlike,  taking  revenge  too  deep  for  a  transient  wrong 
Done  but  in  thought  to  your  beauty,  and  ever  as  pale  as  before 
Growing  and  fading  and  growing  upon  me  without  a  sound, 
Luminous,  gemlike,  ghostlike,  deathlike,  half  the  night  long 
Growing  and  fading  and  growing,  till  I  could  bear  it  no  more, 
But  arose,  and  all  by  myself  in  my  own  dark  garden  ground, 
Listening  now  to  the  tide  in  its  broad-flung  shipwrecking  roar, 
Now  to  the  scream  of  a  madden'd  beach  dragg'd  down  by  the  wave, 
Walk'd  in  a  wintry  wind  by  a  ghastly  glimmer,  and  found 
The  shining  daffodil  dead,  and  Orion  low  in  his  grave. 


IV. 


A  million  emeralds  break  from  the  ruby-budded  lime 
In  the  little  grove  where  I  sit — ah,  wherefore  cannot  I  be 
Like  things  of  the  season  gay,  like  the  bountiful  season  bland, 
When  the  far-off  sail  is  blown  by  the  breeze  of  a  softer  clime, 


MAUD.  519 


Half-lost  in  the  liquid  azure  bloom  of  a  crescent  of  sea, 
The  silent  sapphire-spangled  marriage  ring  of  the  land? 

Below  me,  there,  is  the  village,  and  looks  how  quiet  and  small! 
And  yet  bubbles  o'er  like  a  city,  with  gossip,  scandal,  and  spite; 
And  Jack  on  his  alehouse  bench  has  as  many  lies  as  a  Czar; 
And  here  on  the  landward  side,  by  a  red  rock,  glimmers  the  Hall; 
And  up  in  the  high  Hall-garden  I  see  her  pass  like  a  light; 
But  sorrow  seize  me  if  ever  that  light  be  my  leading  star! 

When  have  I  bowM  to  her  father,  the  wrinkled  head  of  the  race? 
I  met  her  to-day  with  her  brother  but  not  to  her  brother  I  bowM; 
I  bow'd  to  his  lady-sister  as  she  rode  by  on  the  moor; 
But  the  fire  of  a  foolish  pride  flash'd  over  her  beautiful  face. 

0  child,  you  wrong  your  beauty,  believe  it,  in  being  so  proud; 
Your  father  has  wealth  well-gotten,  and  I  am  nameless  and  poor. 

1  keep  but  a  man  and  a  maid,  ever  ready  to  slander  and  steal ; 
I  know  it,  and  smile  a  hard-set  smile,  like  a  stoic,  or  like 

A  wiser  epicurean,  and  let  the  world  have  its  way : 

For  nature  is  one  with  rapine,  a  harm  no  preacher  can  heal ; 

The  Mayfly  is  torn  by  the  swallow,  the  sparrow  spear'd  by  the  shrike, 

And  the  whole  little  wood  where  I  sit  is  a  world  of  plunder  and  prey. 

We  are  puppets,  Man  in  his  pride,  and  Beauty  fair  in  her  flower; 
Do  we  move  ourselves,  or  are  moved  by  an  unseen  hand  at  a  game 
That  pushes  us  off  from  the  board,  and  others  ever  succeed? 
Ah  yet,  we  cannot  be  kind  to  each  other  "here  for  an  hour; 
We  whisper,  and  hint,  and  chuckle,  and  grin  at  a  brother's  shame; 
However  we  brave  it  out,  we  men  are  a  little  breed. 

A  monstrous  eft  was  of  old  the  Lord  and  Master  of  Earth, 
For  him  did  his  high  sun  flame,  and  his  river  billowing  ran, 
And  he  felt  himself  in  his  force  to  be  Nature's  crowning  race. 
As  nine  months  go  to  the  shaping  an  infant  ripe  for  his  birth, 
So  many  a  million  of  ages  have  gone  to  the  making  of  man: 
He  now  is  first,  but  is  he  the  last?  is  he  not  too  base? 

The  man  of  science  himself  is  fonder  of  glory,  and  vain, 
An  eye  well-practised  in  nature,  a  spirit  bounded  and  poor; 
The  passionate  heart  of  the  poet  is  whirFd  into  folly  and  vice. 
I  would  not  marvel  at  either,  but  keep  a  temperate  brain; 


520  MA  UD. 


For  not  to  desire  or  admire,  if  a  man  could  learn  it,  were  more 
Than  to  walk  all  day  like  the  Sultan  of  old  in  a  garden  of  spice. 

For  the  drift  of  the  Maker  is  dark,  an  Isis  hid  by  the  veil. 

Who  knows  the  ways  of  the  world,  how  God  will  bring  them   about? 

Our  planet  is  one,  the  suns  are  many,  the  world  is  wide. 

Shall  I  weep  if  a  Poland  fall?  shall  I  shriek  if  a  Hungary  fail? 

Or  an  infant  civilization  be  ruled  with  rod  or  with  knout? 

I  have  not  made  the  world,  and  He  that  made  it  will  guide. 

Be  mine  a  philosopher's  life  in  the  quiet  woodland  ways, 

Where  if  I  cannot  be  gay  let  a  passionless  peace  be  my  lot, 

Far-off  from  the  clamor  of  liars  belied  in  the  hubbub  of  lies; 

From  the  long-neck'd  geese  of  the  world  that  are  ever  hissing  dispraise 

Because  their  natures  are  little,  and,  whether  he  heed  it  or  not, 

Where  each  man  walks  with  his  head  in  a  cloud  of  poisonous  flies. 

And  most  of  all  would  I  flee  from  the  cruel  madness  of  love, 
The  honey  of  poison-flowers  and  all  the  measureless  ill. 
Ah  Maud,  you  milk  white  fawn,  you  are  all  unmeet  for  a  wife. 
lrour  mother  is  mute  in  her  grave  as  her  image  in  marble  above; 
Your  father  is  ever  in  London,  you  wander  about  at  your  will; 
You  have  but  fed  on  the  roses,  and  lain  in  the  lilies  of  life. 


A  voice  by  the  cedar-tree 

In  tbe  meadow  under  the  Hall! 

She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to  me, 

A  passionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay, 

A  martial  song  like  a  trumpet's  call ! 

Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life, 

In  the  happy  morning  of  life  and  of  May, 

Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array, 

Ready  in  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 

March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife 

To  the  death,  for  their  native  land. 

Maud  with  her  exquisite  face, 
And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the  sunny  sky, 
And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  English  green, 
Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and  her  grace, 
Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honor  that  cannot  die, 


MAUD. 


52.1 


Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so  sordid  and  mean, 
And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 

Silence,  beautiful  voice! 

Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the  mind 

With  a  joy  in  which  I  cannot  rejoice, 

A  glory  I  shall  not  find. 

Still!  I  will  hear  you  no  more, 

For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me  a  choice 

But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall  before 

Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,  and  adore, 

Not  her,  who  is  neither  courtly  nor  kind, 

Not  her,  not  her,  but  a  voice. 


VI. 


Morning  arises  stormy  and  pale, 

No  sun,  but  a  wannish  glare 

In  fold  upon  fold  of  hueless  cloud, 

And  the  budded  peaks  of  the  wood  are  bow'd 

Caught  and  cufFd  by  the  gale: 

I  had  fancied  it  would  be  fair. 


522  MAUD. 


Whom  but  Maud  should  I  meet 

Last  night,  when  the  sunset  burn'd 

On  the  blossom'd  gable-ends 

At  the  head  of  the  village  street, 

Whom  but  Maud  should  I  meet? 

And  she  touch'd  my  hand  with  a  smile  so  sweet 

She  made  me  divine  amends 

For  a  courtesy  not  return'd. 

And  thus  a  de'licate  spark 

Of  glowing  and  growing  light 

Thro'  the  livelong  hours  of  the  dark 

Kept  itself  warm  in  the  heart  of  my  dreams, 

Ready  to  burst  in  a  color'd  flame; 

Till  at  last,  when  the  morning  came 

In  a  cloud,  it  faded,  and  seems 

But  an  ashen-gray  delight. 

What  if  with  her  sunny  hair, 

And  smile  as  sunny  as  cold, 

She  meant  to  weave  me  a  snare 

Of  some  coquettish  deceit, 

Cleopatra-like  as  of  old 

To  entangle  me  when  we  met, 

To  have  her  lion  roll  in  a  silken  net, 

And  fawn  at  a  victor's  feet. 

Ah,  what  shall  I  be  at  fifty 

Should  Nature  keep  me  alive, 

If  I  find  the  world  so  bitter 

When  I  am  but  twenty-five? 

Yet,  if  she  were  not  a  cheat, 

If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem'd, 

And  her  smile  were  all  that  I  dream'd 

Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 

But  a  smile  could  make  it  sweet. 

What  if  tho'  her  eye  seem'd  full 
Of  a  kind  intent  to  me, 
What  if  that  dandy  despot,  he, 
That  jewell'd  mass  of  millineiy, 
That  oil'd  and  curl'd  Assyrian  Bull 
Smelling  of  musk  and  of  insolence, 
Her  brother,  from  whom  I  keep  aloof, 
Who  wants  the  finer  politic  sense 


MA  UD.  523 


To  mask,  tho'  but  in  his  own  behoof, 
With  a  glassy  smile  his  brutal  scorn,— 
What  if  he  hat!  told  her  yestermorn 
How  prettily  for  his  own  sweet  sake 
A  face  of  tenderness  might  be  feiguM, 
And  a  moist  mirage  in  desert  eyes, 
That  so,  when  the  rotten  hustings  shake 
In  another  month  to  his  brazen  lies, 
A  wretched  vote  may  be  gain'd. 

For  a  raven  ever  croaks,  at  my  side, 

Keep  watch  and  ward,  keep  watch  and  ward. 

Or  thou  wilt  prove  their  tool. 

Yea,  too,  myself  from  myself  I  guard, 

For  often  a  man's  own  angry  pride 

Is  cap  and  bells  for  a  fool. 

Perhaps  the  smile  and  tender  tone 

Came  out  of  her  pitying  womanhood, 

For  am  I  not,  am  I  not,  here  alone 

So  many  a  summer  since  she  died, 

My  mother,  who  was  so  gentle  and  good? 

Living  alone  in  an  empty  house, 

Here  half-hid  in  the  gleaming  wood, 

Where  I  hear  the  dead  at  midday  moan, 

And  the  shrieking  rush  of  the  wainscot  mouse, 

And  my  own  sad  name  in  corners  cri«  d, 

When  the  shiver  of  dancing  leaves  w  thrown 

About  its  echoing  chambers  wide, 

Till  a  morbid  hate  and  horror  have  grown 

Of  a  world  in  which  I  have  hardly  mixt, 

And  a  morbid  eating  lichen  fixt 

On  a  heart  half-turn*  d  to  stone. 

O  heart  of  stone,  are  you  flesh,  and  caught 
By  that  you  swore  to  withstand  ? 
For  what  was  it  else  within  me  wrought 
But,  I  fear,  the  new  strong  wine  of  love, 
That  made  my  tongue  so  stammer  and  trip 
Whe«  I  saw  the  treasured  splendor,  her  hand, 
Come  sliding  out  of  her  sacred  glove, 
And  the  sunlight  broke  from  her  lip? 


S24  MA  UD. 


I  have  play'd  with  her  when  a  child: 

She  remembers  it  now  we  meet. 

Ah  well,  well,  well,  I  may  be  beguil'd, 

By  some  coquettish  deceit. 

Yet,  if  she  were  not  a  cheat, 

If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem'd, 

And  her  smile  had  all  that  I  dream'd, 

Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 

But  a  smile  could  make  it  sweet. 

VII. 

Did  I  hear  it  half  in  a  doze 

Long  since,  I  know  not  where? 

Did  I  dream  it  an  hour  ago, 
When  asleep  in  this  arm-chair? 

Men  were  drinking  together, 
Drinking  and  talking  of  me; 

"  Well,  if  it  prove  a  girl,  the  boy 
Will  have  plenty ;  so  let  it  be." 

Is  it  an  echo  of  something 

Read  with  a  boy's  delight, 
Viziers  nodding  together 

In  some  Arabian  night? 

Strange,  that  I  hear  two  men, 

Somewhere,  talking  of  me; 
"  Weil,  if  it  prove  a  girl,  my  boy 

Will  have  plenty :  so  let  it  be." 

VIII. 

She  came  to  the  village  church, 

And  sat  by  a  pillar  alone; 

An  angel  watching  an  urn 

Wept  over  her,  carved  in  stone; 

And  once,  but  once,  she  lifted  her  eyes, 

And  suddenly,  sweetly,  strangely  blush'd 

To  find  they  were  met  by  my  own ; 

And  suddenly,  sweetly,  my  heart  beat  stronger 

And  thicker,  until  I  heard  no  longer 


MAUD.  525 


The  snowy-banded,  dilettante, 
Delicate-handed  priest  intone; 
And  thought,  is  it  pride,  and  mused  and  sigh'd 
«*  No  surely,  now  it  cannot  be  pride." 


IX. 


I  was  walking  a  mile, 
More  than  a  mile  from  the  shore, 
The  sun  look'd  out  with  a  smile 
Betwixt  the  cloud  and  the  moor, 
And  riding  at  set  of  day 
Over  the  dark  moor  land, 
Rapidly  riding  far  away, 
She  waved  to  me  with  her  hand. 
There  were  two  at  her  side, 
Something  flash'd  in  the  sun, 
Down  by  the  hill  I  saw  them  ride, 
In  a  moment  they  were  gone: 
Like  a  sudden  spark 
Struck  vainly  in  the  night, 
And  back  returns  the  dark 
With  no  more  hope  of  light. 


Sick,  am  I  sick  of  a  jealous  dread? 
Was  not  one  of  the  two  at  her  side 
This  new-made  lord,  whose  splendor  plucks 
The  slavish  hat  from  the  villager's  head? 
Whose  old  grandfather  has  lately  died, 
Gone  to  a  blacker  pit,  for  whom 
Grimy  nakedness  dragging  his  trucks 
And  laying  his  trams  in  a  poison'd  gloom 
Wrought,  till  he  crept  from  a  gutted  mine, 
Master  of  half  a  servile  shire, 
And  left  his  coal  all  turnM  into  gold 
To  a  grandson,  first  of  his  noble  line, 
Rich  in  the  grace  all  women  desire, 
Strong  in  the  power  that  all  men  adore, 
And  simper  and  set  their  voices  lower, 
And  soften  as  if  to  a  girl,  and  hold 
Awe-stricken  breaths  at  a  work  divine, 
Seeing  his  gewgaw  castle  shine, 


526  MAUD. 


New  as  his  title,  built  last  year, 
There  amid  perky  larches  and  pine, 
And  over  the  sullen-purple  moor 
(Look  at  it)  pricking  a  cockney  ear. 

What,  has  he  found  my  jewel  out? 
For  one  of  the  two  that  rode  at  her  side 
Bound  for  the  Hall,  I  am  sure  was  he; 
Bound  for  the  Hall,  and  I  think  for  a  bride. 
Blithe  would  her  brother's  acceptance  be. 
Maud  could  be  gracious  too,  no  doubt, 
To  a  lord,  a  captain,  a  padded  shape, 
A  bought  commission,  a  waxen  face, 
A  rabbit  mouth  that  is  ever  agape — 
Bought?  what  is  it  he  cannot  buy? 
And  therefore  splenetic,  personal,  base, 
A  wounded  thing  with  a  rancorous  cry, 
At  war  with  myself  and  a  wretched  race, 
Sick,  sick  to  the  heart  of  life,  am  I. 

Last  week  came  one  to  the  county  town, 
To  preach  our  poor  little  army  down, 
And  play  the  game  of  the  despot  kings, 
Tho'  the  state  has  done  it  and  thrice  as  well : 
This  broad-brimm'd  hawker  of  holy  things, 
Whose  ear  is  stuff'd  with  his  cotton,  and  rings 
Even  in  dreams  to  the  chink  of  his  pence, 
This  huckster  put  down  war!  can  he  tell 
Whether  war  be  a  cause  or  a  consequence? 
Put  down  the  passions  that  make  earth  Hell! 
Down  with  ambition,  avarice,  pride, 
Jealousy,  down!  cut  off  from  the  mind 
The  bitter  springs  of  anger  and  fear; 
Down  too,  down  at  your  own  fireside, 
With  the  evil  tongue  and  the  evil  ear, 
For  each  is  at  war  with  mankind. 

I  wish  I  could  hear  again 

The  chivalrous  battle-song 

That  she  warbled  alone  in  her  joy! 

I  might  persuade  myself  then 

She  would  not  do  herself  this  great  wrong 

To  take  a  wanton,  dissolute  boy 

For  a  man  and  leader  of  men. 


MAUD.  527 


Ah  God,  for  a  man  with  heart,  head,  hand, 
Like  some  of  the  simple  great  ones  gone 
Forever  and  ever  by, 
One  still  strong  man  in  a  blatant  land, 
Whatever  they  call  him,  what  care  I, 
Aristocrat,  democrat,  autocrat, — one 
Who  can  rule  and  dare  not  lie. 

And  ah  for  a  man  to  rise  in  me, 
That  the  man  I  am  may  cease  to  be! 


XI. 


0  let  the  solid  ground 
Not  fail  beneath  my  feet 

Before  my  life  has  found 

What  some  have  found  so  sweet; 
Then  let  come  what  come  may, 
What  matter  if  I  go  mad, 

1  shall  have,  had  my  day. 

Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure, 
Not  close  and  darken  above  me 

Before  I  am  quite,  quite  sure 
That  there  is  one  to  love  me; 

Then  let  come  what  come  may 

To  a  life  that  has  been  so  sad, 

I  shall  have  had  my  day. 

XII. 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
When  twilight  was  falling, 

Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 
They  were  crying  and  calling. 

Where  was  Maud?  in  our  wood; 

And  I,  who  else,  was  with  her, 
Gathering  woodland  lilies, 

Myriads  blow  together. 


528 


ma  un. 


Birds  in  our  woods  sang 

Ringing  thro'  the  valleys, 
Maud  is  here,  here,  here 

In  among  the  lilies. 

I  kiss'd  her  slender  hand, 

She  took  the  kiss  sedately; 
Maud  is  not  seventeen, 

But  she  is  tall  and  stately. 

I  to  cry  out  on  pride 

Who  have  won  her  favor! 

0  Maud  were  sure  of  Heaven 
If  lowliness  could  save  her. 

1  know  the  way  she  went 

Kome  with  her  maiden  posy. 
For  her  feet  have  touch'd  the  meadows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 


Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
Were  crying  and  calling  to  her, 

Where  is  Maud,  Maud,  Maud. 
One  is  come  to  woo  her. 


MA  UD.  529 


Look,  a  horse  at  the  door, 

And  little  King  Charles  is  snarling, 
Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor, 

You  are  not  her  darling. 


XIII. 

Scorn'd,  to  be  scorn'd  by  one  that  I  scorn, 
Is  that  a  matter  to  make  me  fret? 
That  a  calamity  hard  to  he  borne? 
Well,  he  may  live  to  hate  me  yet. 

Fool  that  I  am  to  be  vext  with  his  pride! 

I  past  him,  I  was  crossing  his  lands: 

He  stood  on  the  path,  a  little  aside; 

His  face,  as  I  grant,  in  spite  of  spite, 

Has  a  broad-blown  comelinc»N  red  and  white, 

And  six  feet  two,  as  I  think,  he  stands; 

But  his  essence  turn'd  the  live  air  sick, 

And  barbarous  opulence  jewel-thick 

Sunn'd  itself  on  his  breast  and  his  hands. 

Who  shall  call  me  ungentle,  unfair, 
I  long'd  so  heartily  then  and  there 
To  give  him  the  grasp  of  fellowship; 
But  while  I  past  he  was  humming  an  air, 
Stopt,  and  then  with  a  riding  whip 
Leisurely  tapping  a  glossy  boot 
And  curving  a  contumelious  lip, 
Gorgonized  me  from  head  to  foot 
With  a  stony  British  stare. 

Why  sits  he  here  in  his  fathers  chair? 
That  old  man  never  comes  to  his  place: 
Shall  I  believe  him  asham'd  to  be  seen? 
For  only  once,  in  the-  village  street, 
Last  year  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face, 
A  gray  old  wolf  and  a  lean. 
Scarcely,  now,  would  I  call  him  a  cheat; 
For  then,  perhaps,  as  a  child  of  deceit, 
She  might  by  a  true  descent  be  untrue; 
And  Maud  is  as  true  as  Maud  is  sweet; 
Tho*  I  fancy  her  sweetness  only  due 


34 


530  MA  UD. 


To  the  sweeter  blood  by  the  other  side; 
Her  mother  has  been  a  thing  complete, 
However  she  came  to  be  so  allied. 
And  fair  without,  faithful  within, 
Maud  to  him  is  nothing  akin: 
Some  peculiar  mystic  grace 
Made  her  only  the  child  of  her  mother, 
And  heap'd  the  whole  inherited  sin 
On  that  huge  scapegoat  of  the  race, 
All,  all  upon  the  brother. 

Peace,  angry  spirit,  and  let  him  be! 
Has  not  his  sister  smiled  on  me? 

XIV. 

Maud  has  a  garden  of  roses 
And  lilies  fair  on  a  lawn; 
There  she  walks  in  her  state 
And  tends  upon  bed  and  bower, 
And  thither  I  climb'd  at  dawn 
And  stood  by  her  garden-gate; 
A  lion  ramps  at  the  top, 
He  is  claspt  by  a  passion  flower. 

Maud's  own  little  oak-room 

(Which  Maud,  like  a  precious  stone 

Set  iit  the  heart  of  the  carven  gloom, 

Lights  with  herself,  when  alone 

She  sits  by  her  music  and  books, 

And  her  brother  lingers  late 

With  a  roistering  company)  looks 

Upon  Maud's  own  garden-gate: 

And  I  thought  as  I  stood,  if  a  hand,  as  white 

As  ocean-foam  in  the  moon,  were  laid 

On  the  hasp  of  the  window,  and  my  Delight 

Had  a  sudden  desire,  like  a  glorious  ghost,  to  glide, 

Like  a  beam  of  the  seventh  Heaven,  down  to  my  side, 

There  were  but  a  step  to  be  made. 

The  fancy  flatter'd  my  mind, 

And  again  seem'd  overbold; 

Now  I  thought  that  she  cared  for  me, 


MA  UD. 


531 


Now  I  thought  she  was  kind 
Only  because  she  was  cold. 

I  heard  no  sound  where  I  stood 

But  the  rivulet  on  from  the  lawn 

Running  down  to  my  own  dark  wood; 

Or  the  voice  of  the  long:  sea-wave  as  it  swelPd 


Now  and  then  in  the  dim-gray  dawn; 

But  I  lookM,  and  round,  all  round  the  house  I  beheJ«i 

The  death-white  curtain  drawn; 

Felt  a  horror  over  me  creep, 

Prickle  my  skin  and  catch  my  breath, 

Knew  that  the  death-white  curtain  meant  but  sleep, 

Yet  I  shudder'd  and  thought  like  a  fool  of  the  sleep  of  death. 


xv. 


So  dark  a  mind  within  me  dwells, 
And  I  make  myself  such  evil  cheer, 

That  if  /  be  dear  to  some  one  else, 

Then  some  one  else  may  have  much  to  fear; 

But  if  /  be  dear  to  some  one  else, 

Then  I  should  be  to  myself  more  dear. 

Shall  I  not  take  care  of  all  that  I  think, 

Yea  ev'n  of  wretched  meat  and  drink, 

If  I  be  dear, 

If  I  be  dear  to  some  one  else? 


S>32  MA  UD. 


XV*. 


This  lump  of  earth  has  left  his  estate 

The  lighter  by  the  loss  of  his  weight; 

And  so  that  he  find  what  he  went  to  seek, 

And  fulsome  Pleasure  clog  him,  and  drown 

His  heart  in  the  gross  mud-honey  of  town, 

He  may  stay  for  a  year  who  has  gone  for  a  week: 

But  this  is  the  da}'  when  I  must  speak, 

And  I  see  my  Oread  coming  down, 

O  this  is  the  day! 

0  beautiful  creature,  what  am  I 
That  I  dare  to  look  her  way; 
Think  I  may  hold  dominion  sweet, 

Lord  of  the  pulse  that  is  lord  of  her  breast, 
And  dream  of  her  beaut}'  with  tender  dread, 
From  the  delicate  Arab  arch  of  her  feet 
To  the  grace  that,  bright  and  light  as  the  crest 
Of  a  peacock,  sits  on  her  shining  head, 
And  she  knows  it  not:  O,  if  she  knew  it, 
To  know  her  beauty  might  half  undo  it. 

1  know  it  the  one  bright  thing  to  save 
My  yet  young  life  in  the  wilds  of  Time, 
Perhaps  from  madness,  perhaps  from  crime, 
Perhaps  from  a  selfish  grave. 

What,  if  she  were  fasten'd  to  this  fool  lord 

Dare  I  bid  her  abide  by  her  word  ? 

Should  I  love  her  so  well  if  she 

Had  given  her  word  to  a  thing  so  low  ? 

Shall  I  love  her  as  well  as  if  she 

Can  break  her  word  were  it  even  for  me? 

I  trust  that  it  is  not  so. 


Catch  not  my  breath,  O  clamorous  heart, 
Let  not  my  tongue  be  a  thrall  to  my  eye, 
Fo**  I  must  tell  her  before  we  part, 
I  must  tell  her,  or  die. 


XVII. 


Go  not,  happy  day, 

From  the  shining  fields, 


MA  UD.  \  33 


Go  not,  happy  <1 

TiH  the  maiden  yields. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roscn  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 
When  the  happy  Yea 

Falters  from  her  lips, 
Pass  and  blush  the  new  - 

O'er  the  blowing  ships, 
Over  blowing  sea-. 

Over  seas  at  rest, 
Pass  the  happy  news, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West, 
Till  the  red  man  dance 

By  his  red  cedar-tree, 
And  the  red  man's  1>:i>>c 

Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush  from  West  to  East, 

Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 

XVIII. 

I  have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only  friend. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none, 

And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood 

And  sweetly,  on  and  on 

Calming  itself  to  the  long-wish'd  for  end, 

Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  promis'd  good. 

None  like  her,  none; 

I nst  now  the  dry-tongued  laurel's  pattering  talk, 

Secm'd  her  light  foot  along  the  garden  walk, 

And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she  comes  once  morel 

But  even  then  I  heard  her  close  the  door, 

The  gates  of  Heaven  are  closed,  and  she  is  gone. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none. 

Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have  deceased. 


534  MA  UD. 


O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 

In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy  delicious  East, 

Sighing  for  Lebanon, 

Dark  cedar,  tho'  thy  limbs  have  here  increas'd, 

Upon  a  pastoral  slope  as  fair, 

And  looking  to  the  South,  and  fed 

With  honey'd  rain  and  delicate  air, 

And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 

Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed  my  fate, 

And  made  my  life  a  perfum'd  altar-flame; 

And  over  whom  thy  darkness  must  have  spread 

With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old,  thy  great 

Forefathers  of  the  thornless  garden,  there 

Shadowing  the  snow-limb'd  Eve  from  whom  she  came. 

Here  will  I  lie,  while  these  long  branches  sway, 

And  you  fair  stars  that  crown  a  happy  day 

Go  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play, 

Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn, 

As  when  it  seem'd  far  better  to  be  born 

To  labor  and  the  mattock-harden'd  hand, 

Than  nurs'd  at  ease  and  brought  to  understand 

A  sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan, 

That  makes  you  tyrants  in  your  iron  skies, 

Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes, 

Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  burn  and  brand 

His  nothingness  into  man. 

But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I, 

Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have  found  a  pearl 

The  countercharm  of  space  and  hollow  sky, 

And  do  accept  my  madness  and  would  die 

To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one  simple  girl. 

Would  die;  for  sullen  seeming  Death  may  give 

More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 

In  our  low  world,  where  yet  'tis  sweet  to  live, 

Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to  pass; 

It  seems  that  I  am  happy,  that  to  me 

A  livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the  grass, 

A  purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 

;: 

Not  die;  but  live  a  life  of  truest  breath, 

And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with  mortal  wrongs. 


MAUD.  535 


O,  why  should  Love,  like  men  in  drinking-songs, 

Spice  his  fair  banquet  with  the  dust  of  death? 

Make  answer,  Maud  my  bliss. 

Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long  lover's  kiss, 

Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer  this? 

"  The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven  here 

With  dear  Love's  tie,  makes  Love  himself  more  dear. 

Is  that  enchanted  moan  only  the  swell 

Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder  bay? 

And  hark  the  clock  within,  the  silver  kiuil 

Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  past  in  bridal  white, 

And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  pulses  play; 

But  now  by  this  my  love  has  closed  her  sight 

And  giv'n  false  death  her  hand,  and  stoPn  away 

To  dreamful  wastes  where  footless  fancies  dwell 

Among  the  fragments  of  the  golden  day. 

May  nothing  there  her  maiden  grace  affright! 

Dear  heart,  I  feel  with  thee  the  drowsy  spell. 

My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight, 

My  own  heart's  heart  and  ownest  own,  farewell; 

It  is  but  for  a  little  space  I  go: 

And  ye  meanwhile  far  over  moor  and  fell 

Beat  to  the  noiseless  music  of  the  night! 

Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to  the  glow 

Of  your  soft  splendors  that  you  look  so  bright? 

/  have  climb'd  nearer  out  of  lonely  Hell. 

Beat,  happy  stars,  timing  with  things  below, 

Beat  with  my  heart  more  blest  than  heart  can  tell, 

Blest,  but  for  some  dark  undercurrent  woe 

That  seems  to  draw — but  it  shall  not  be  so: 

Let  all  be  well,  be  well. 


XIX. 


Her  brother  is  coming  back  to-night, 
Breaking  up  my  dream  of  delight. 

My  dream?  do  I  dream  of  bliss? 
I  have  walk'd  awake  with  Truth. 
O  when  did  a  morning  shine 
So  rich  in  atonement  as  this 
For  my  dark-dawning  youth, 


536  MA  UD. 


Darken'd  watching  a  mother  decline 
Ai.d  that  dead  man  at  her  heart  and  mine: 
For  who  was  left  to  watch  her  but  I  ? 
Yet  so  did  I  let  my  freshness  die. 


I  trust  that  I  did  not  talk 

To  gentle  Maud  in  our  walk. 

(For  often  in  lonely  wanderings 

I  have  cursed  him  even  to  lifeless  things) 

But  I  trust  that  I  did  not  talk, 

Not  touch  on  her  father's  sin: 

I  am  sure  I  did  but  speak 

Of  my  mother's  faded  cheek 

When  it  slowly  grew  so  thin, 

That  I  felt  she  was  slowly  dying 

Vext  with  lawyers  and  harass'd  with  debt: 

For  how  often  I  caught  her  with  eyes  all  wet, 

Shaking  her  head  at  her  son  and  sighing 

A  world  of  trouble  within! 

And  Maud  too,  Maud  was  moved 

To  speak  of  the  mother  she  loved 

As  one  scarce  less  forlorn, 

Dying  abroad  and  it  seems  apart 

From  him  who  had  ceased  to  share  her  heart, 

And  ever  mourning  over  the  feud, 

The  household  Fury  sprinkled  with  blood 

By  which  our  houses  are  torn ; 

How  strange  was  what  she  said, 

When  only  Maud  and  the  brother 

Hung  over  her  dying  bed, — 

That  Maud's  dark  father  and  mine 

Had  bound  us  one  to  the  other, 

Betroth'd  us  over  their  wine 

On  the  day  when  Maud  was  born; 

Seal'd  her  mine  from  her  first  sweet  breath. 

Mine,  mine  by  a  right,  from  birth  till  death. 

Mine,  mine — our  fathers  have  sworn. 

But  the  true  blood  spilt  had  in  it  a  heat 
To  dissolve  the  precious  seal  on  a  bond, 
That,  if  left  uncancell'd,  had  been  so  sweet: 
And  none  of  us  thought  of  a  something  beyond, 
A  desire  that  awoke  in  the  heart  of  the  child, 


MAUD.  537 


As  it  were  a  duty  done  to  the  tomb, 
To  be  friends  for  her  sake,  to  be  reconciled; 
And  I  was  cursing  them  and  my  doom, 
And  letting  a  dangerous  thought  run  wild 
While  often  abroad  in  the  fragrant  gloom 
Of  foreign  churches — I  see  her  thi 
Bright  English  lily,  breathing  a  prayer 
To  be  friends,  to  be  reconciled! 

But  then  what  a  flint  is  he! 

Abroad,  at  Florence,  at  Rome, 

I  find  whenever  she  touch'd  on  me 

This  brother  had  laugh'd  her  down, 

And  at  last,  when  each  came  home, 

He  had  darkenM  into  a  frown. 

Chid  her,  and  forbid  her  to  speak 

To  me,  her  friend  of  the  years  before; 

And  this  was  what  had  redden'd  her  cheek, 

When  I  bow'd  to  her  on  the  moor. 

Yet  Maud,  altho'  not  blind 

To  the  faults  of  his  heart  and  mind, 

I  sir  s!u-  cannot  but  love  him, 

And  savs  lie  is  rough  but  kind, 

And  wishes  me  to  approve  him, 

And  tells  me,  when  she  lay 

Sick  once,  with  a  fear  of  worse, 

That  he  left  his  wine  and  horses  :md  play, 

Sat  with  her,  read  to  her,  night  and  day, 

And  tended  her  like  a  nurse. 

Kind?  but  the  death-bed  desire 
Spurn'd  by  this  heir  of  the  Har — 
Rough  but  kind?  yet  I   know 
He  has  plotted  against  me  in  this, 
That  he  plots  against  me  still. 
Kind  to  Maud?  that  were  not  amiss, 
Well,  rough  but  kind;  why,  let  it  be  so: 
For  shall  not  Maud  have  her  will? 

For,  Maud,  so  tender  and  true, 
As  long  as  my  life  endures 
I  feel  I  shall  owe  you  a  debt, 


538  MAUD. 


That  I  never  can  hope  to  pay ; 
And  if  ever  I  should  forget 
That  I  owe  this  debt  to  you 
And  for  your  sweet  sake  to  yours; 

0  then,  what  then  shall  I  say? 
If  ever  I  should  forget, 

May  God  make  me  more  wretched 
Than  ever  I  have  been  yet! 

So  now  I  have  sworn  to  bury 
All  this  dead  body  of  hate, 

1  feel  so  free  and  so  clear 

By  the  loss  of  that  dead  weight, 

That  I  should  grow  light-headed,  I  fear, 

Fantastically  merry; 

But  that  her  brother  comes,  like  a  blight 

On  my  fresh  hope,  to  the  Hall  to-night. 

xx. 

Strange,  that  I  felt  so  gay, 
Strange,  that  I  tried  to-day 
To  beguile  her  melancholy ; 
The  Sultan,  as  we  name  him, 
She  did  not  wish  to  blame  him — 
But  he  vext  her  and  perplext  her 
With  his  worldly  talk  and  folly: 
Was  it  gentle  to  reprove  her 
For  stealing  out  of  view 
From  a  little  lazy  lover 
Who  but  claims  her  as  his  due? 
Or  for  chilling  his  caresses, 
By  the  coldness  of  her  manners, 
Nay,  the  plainness  of  her  dresses? 
Now  I  know  her  but  in  two, 
Nor  can  pronounce  upon  it 
If  one  should  ask  me  whether 
The  habit,  hat,  and  feather, 
Or  the  frock  and  gypsy  bonnet 
Be  the  neater  and  completer; 
For  nothing  can  be  sweeter 
Than  maiden  Maud  in  either. 


MA  UD.  539 


But  to-morrow,  if  we  live, 
Our  ponderous  squire  will  give 
A  grand  political  dinner 
To  half  the  squirelings  near; 
And  Maud  will  wear  her  jewels, 
And  the  bird  of  prey  will  hover, 
And  the  titmouse  hope  to  win  her 
With  his  chirrup  at  her  ear. 

A  grand  political  dinner 

To  the  men  of  many  acres, 

A  gathering  of  the  Tory, 

A  dinner  and  then  a  dance 

For  the  maids  and  man  la^e-makers, 

And  every  eye  but  mine  will  glance 

At  Maud  in  all  her  glory. 

For  I  am  not  invited, 
But,  with  the  Sultan's  pardon, 
I  am  all  as  well  delighted, 
For  I  know  her  own  rose-garden, 
And  mean  to  linger  in  it 
Till  the  dancing  will  be  over; 
And  then,  O  then,  come  out  to  me 
For  a  minute,  but  for  a  minute, 
Come  out  to  your  own  true  lover, 
That  your  true  lover  may  see 
Your  glory  also,  and  render 
All  homage  to  his  own  darling, 
Queen  Maud  in  all  her  splendor. 

XXI. 


Rivulet  crossing  my  ground, 

And  bringing  me  down  from  the  Hall 

This  garden-rose  that  I  found, 

Forgetful  of  Maud  and  me, 

And  lost  in  trouble  and  moving  round 

Here  at  the  head  of  a  tinkling  fall, 

And  trying  to  pass  to  the  sea; 

O  Rivulet,  born  at  the  Hall, 

My  Maud  has  sent  it  by  thee 

(If  I  read  her  sweet  will  right) 


540 


MAUD. 


On  a  blushing  mission  to  me, 
Saying  in  odor  and  color,  "  Ah,  be 
Among  the  roses  to-night." 


XXII. 


Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone; 


And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 

And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirr'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 


I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one 
With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 


MA  UD.  541 


When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play.'1 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoed  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "  The  brief  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine? 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 

"  Forever  and  ever,  mine." 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood, 

As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  hall; 
As  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the  wood, 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all : 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so  sweet 
That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 

He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 
In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 

To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 
And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  t 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake, 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the   L< 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 

Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 
In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 

Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one; 
Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls, 

To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  son. 


542  MA  UD. 


There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "  She  is  near,  she  is  near;" 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is  late; " 
The  larkspur  listens,  "  I  hear,  I  hear;" 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  swec 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

XXIII. 

•  The  fault  was  mine,  the  fault  was  mine  " — 

Why  am  I  sitting  here  so  stunn'd  and  still, 

Plucking  the  harmless  wild-flower  on  the  hill  f— » 

It  is  this  guilty  hand! — 

And  there  rises  ever  a  passionate  cry 

From  underneath  in  the  darkening  land — 

What  is  it,  that  has  been  done? 

O  dawn  of  Eden  bright  over  earth  and  sky, 

The  fires  of  Hell  brake  out  of  thy  rising  sun, 

The  fires  of  Hell  and  of  Hate; 

For  she,  sweet  soul,  had  hardly  spoken  a  word, 

When  her  brother  ran  in  his  rage  to  the  gate, 

He  came  with  the  babe-faced  lord ; 

Heap'd  on  her  terms  of  disgrace, 

And  while  she  wept,  and  I  strove  to  be  cool, 

He  fiercely  gave  me  the  lie, 

Till  I  with  as  fierce  an  anger  spoke, 

And  he  struck  me,  madman,  over  the  face, 

Struck  me  before  the  languid  fool, 

Who  was  gaping  and  grinning  by: 

Struck  for  himself  an  evil  stroke: 

Wrought  for  his  house  an  irredeemable  woe; 

For  front  to  front  in  an  hour  we  stood, 

And  a  million  horrible  bellowing  echoes  broke 


MA  UD.  549l 


From  the  red-ribb'd  hollow  behind  the  wood, 

And  thunder'd  up  into  Heaven  the  Christless  code, 

That  must  have  life  for  a  blow. 

Ever  and  ever  afresh  they  seemM  to  grow. 

Was  it  he  lay  there  with  a  fading  eye? 

««  The  fault  was  mine,"  he  whisper'd,  "  fly ! " 

Then  glided  out  of  the  joyous  wood 

The  ghastly  Wraith  of  one  that  I  know; 

And  there  rang  on  a  sudden  a  passionate  cry, 

A  cry  for  a  brother's  blood : 

It  will  ring  in  my  heart  and  my  ears,  till  I  die,  till  I  die. 

Is  it  gone  ?  my  pulses  beat — 

What  was  it?  a  lying  trick  of  the  brain? 

Yet  I  thought  I  saw  her  stand, 

A  shadow  there  at  my  feet, 

High  over  the  shadowy  land. 

It  is  gone;  and  the  heavens  fall  in  a  gentle  rain, 

When  they  should  burst  and  drown  with  deluging  storms 

The  feeble  vassals  of  wine  and  anger  and  lust, 

The  little  hearts  that  know  not  how  to  forgive; 

Arise,  my  God,  and  strike,  for  we  hold  Thee  just, 

Strike  dead  the  whole  weak  race  of  venomous  worms, 

That  sting  each  other  here  in  the  dust; 

We  are  not  worthy  to  live. 


XXIV. 


See  what  a  lovely  shell, 
Small  and  pure  as  a  pearl, 
Lying  close  to  my  foot, 
Frail,  but  a  work  divine, 
Made  so  fairily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl, 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design! 

What  is  it?  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can, 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 


54*  MA  UD 


The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn, 
Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a  rainbow  frill? 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurl'd, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fairy  horn 
Thro'  his  dim  water- world? 

Slight,  to  be  crush'd  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand, 
Small,  but  a  work  divine, 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three-decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock, 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand! 

Breton,  not  Briton;  here 

Like  a  shipwreck'd  man  on  a  coast 

Of  ancient  fable  and  fear, 

Plagued  with  a  flitting  to  and  fro, 

A  disease,  a  hard  mechanic  ghost 

That  never  came  from  on  high 

Nor  never  arose  from  below, 

But  only  moves  with  the  moving  eye, 

Flying  along  the  land  and  the  main, 

Why  should  it  look  like  Maud? 

Am  I  to  be  overawed 

By  what  I  cannot  but  know 

Is  a  juggle  born  of  the  brain? 

Back  from  the  Breton  coast, 

Sick  of  a  nameless  fear, 

Back  to  the  dark  sea-line, 

Looking,  thinking  of  all  I  have  lost: 

An  old  song  vexes  my  ear; 

But  that  of  Lamech  is  mine. 


For  years,  a  measureless  ill, 
For  years,  forever,  to  part, — 


But  she,  she  would  love  me  still 


MA  UD.  545 


And  as  long,  O  God,  as  she 
Have  a  grain  of  love  for  me, 
So  long,  no  doubt,  no  doubt, 
Shall  I  nurse  in  my  dark  heart, 
However  weary,  a  spark  of  will 
Not  to  be  trampled  out. 

Strange,  that  the  mind,  when  fraught 

With  a  passion  so  intense 

One  would  think  that  it  well 

Might  drown  all  life  in  the  eye, — 

That  it  should,  by  being  BO  overwrought, 

Suddenly  strike  on  a  sharper  sense 

For  a  shell,  or  a  flower,  little  things 

Which  else  would  have  been  past  by! 

And  now  I  remember,  I, 

When  he  lay  dying  there, 

I  noticed  one  of  his  many  rings 

(For  he  had  many,  poor  worm,)  and  thought 

It  is  his  mother's  hair. 

Who  knows  if  he  be  dead? 

Whether  I  need  have  fled? 

Am  I  guilty  of  blood? 

However  this  may  be, 

Comfort  her,  comfort  her,  all  things  good, 

While  I  am  over  the  sea! 

Let  me  and  my  passionate  love  go  by, 

But  speak  to  her  all  things  holy  and  high, 

Whatever  happen  to  me! 

Me  and  my  harmful  love  go  by; 

But  come  to  her  waking,  find  her  asleep, 

Powers  of  the  height,  Powers  of  the  deep, 

And  comfort  her  tho'  I  die. 

XXV. 

Courage,  poor  heart  or  stone! 

I  will  not  ask  thee  why 

Thou  canst  not  understand 

That  thou  art  left  forever  alone: 

Courage,  poor  stupid  heart  of  stone.— 

Or  if  I  ask  thee  why, 

Care  not  thou  to  reply: 


546  MA  UD. 


She  is  but  dead,  and  the  time  is  at  hand 
When  thou  shalt  more  than  die. 


XXVI. 

O  that  'twere  possible 

After  long  grief  and  pain 

To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 

Round  me  once  again  ! 

When  I  was  wont  to  meet  her 
In  the  silent  woody  places 
By  the  home  that  gave  me  birth, 
We  stood  tranc'd  in  long  embraces 
Mixt  with  kisses  sweeter,  sweeter 
Than  anything  on  earth. 

A  shadow  flits  before  me, 

Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee; 

Ah  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 

The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell  us 

What  and  where  they  be. 

It  leads  me  forth  at  evening, 

It  lightly  winds  and  steals 

In  a  cold  white  robe  before  me, 

When  all  my  spirit  reels 

At  the  shouts,  the  leagues  of  lights, 

And  the  roaring  of  the  wheels. 

Half  the  night  I  waste  in  sighs, 
Half  in  dreams  I  sorrow  after 
The  delight  of  early  skies; 
In  a  wakeful  doze  I  sorrow 
For  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes, 
For  the  meeting  of  the  morrow, 
The  delight  of  happy  laughter, 
The  delight  of  low  replies. 

'Tis  a  morning  pure  and  sweet, 
And  a  dewy  splendor  falls 


MAUD.  547 


On  the  little  flower  that  clings 
To  the  turrets  and  the  walls; 
Tii  a  morning  pure  ami  sweet. 
And  the  light  and  shadow  fleet; 
She  is  walking  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  woodland  echo  rii 
In  a  moment  we  shall  meet; 
She  is  sin^in;^  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  rivulet  at  her  feet 
Ripples  on  in  light  and  shadow 
To  the  ballad  that  she  sings. 

Do  I  hear  her  sing  as  of  old, 

My  bird  with  the  shining  head, 

My  own  dove  with  the  tender  eye? 

But  there  rings  on  a  sudden  a  passionate  cry. 

There  is  some  one  dying  or  dead. 

And  a  sullen  thunder  is  roll'd; 

For  a  tumult  shakes  the  city, 

And  I  wake,  my  dream  is  fled; 

In  the  shuddering  dawn,  behold, 

Without  knowledge,  without  pity, 

By  the  curtains  of  my  bed 

That  abiding  phantom  cold. 

Get  thee  hence,  nor  come  again, 
Mix  not  memory  with  doubt, 
Pass,  thou  deathlike  type  of  pain, 
Pass  and  cease  to  move  about, 
'Tis  the  blot  upon  the  brain 
That  will  show  itself  without. 

Then  I  rise,  the  eavedrops  fall, 
And  the  yellow  vapors  choke 
The  great  city  sounding  wide; 
The  day  comes,  a  dull  red  hall 
Wrapt  in  drifts  of  lurid  smoke 
On  the  misty   river-tide. 

Thro1  the  hubbub  of  the  market 

I  steal,  a  wasted    Iran 

It  crosses  here,  it  CTOaseS   there, 

Thro'  all  that  crowd  confused  and  loud, 

The  shadow  still  the  same: 


548 


MA  UD. 


And  on  thy  heavy  eyelids 
My  anguish  hangs  like  shame. 


Alas  for  her  that  met  me, 
That  heard  me  softly  call, 
Came  glimmering  thro'  the  laurels 
At  the  quiet  evenfall, 


In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 
Of  the  old  manorial  hall. 


Would  the  happy  spirit  descend, 
From  the  realms  of  light  and  song, 
In  the  chamber  or  the  street, 
As  she  looks  among  the  blest, 
Should  I  fear  to  greet  my  friend 
Or  to  say  "  forgive  the  wrong," 
Or  to  ask  her,  "  take  me,  sweet, 
To  the  regions  of  thy  rest  ?  " 


But  the  broad  light  glares  and  beats, 
And  the  shadow  flits  and  fleets 
And  will  not  let  me  be; 


MAUD.  549 


And  I  loathe  the  squares  and  streets, 
And  the  faces  that  one  meets, 
Hearts  with  no  love  for  me: 
Always  I  long  to  creep 
Into  some  still  cavern  deep, 
There  to  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep 
My  whole  soul  out  to  thee. 

XXVII. 

Dead,  long  dead. 

Long  dead! 

And  mv  heart  is  a  handful  of  dust, 

And  the  wheels  l;«>  over  my  head, 

And  my  hones  are  shaken  with  pain, 
For  into  a  shallow  grave  they  are  thrust, 
Only  a  yard  beneath  the  Bl 
And  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat,  beat, 

The  hoofs  of  the  hOFSCS    heat, 

Beat  into  my  scalp  and  my  hrain, 

With  never  an  cnt\  to  the  stream  of  passing  feet, 

Driving,  hurrying,  marrying,  burying, 
Clamor  and  rumble,  and  ringing  and  clatter, 

And  here  beneath  it  is  .ill  as  had, 

For  I  thought  the  dead  had  peace,  but  it  is  not  so; 

To  have  no  peace  in  tin-  grave,  is  that  n«»t  'sad? 
But  up  and  down  and  to  and   fro, 
Ever  about  me  the  dead  men  go; 
And  then  to  hear  a  dead  man  chatter 
Is  enough  to  drive  one  mad. 

Wretchedest  age,  since  Time  began, 

They  cannot  even  bury  a  in;m; 

And  tho'  We  paid  our  tithes  in  tin-  days  that  an-  ^one, 

Not  a  bell  was  rung,  not  a  prayer  was  read; 

It  is  that  which  makes  us  loud  in  the  world  of  the  dead; 
There  is  none  that  does   his  work,  not  one; 
A  touch  <>f  their  office  might  have  sulliced, 
But  the  churchmen  fain  would  kill  their  church, 
As  the  churches  have  kilPd  their  Christ. 

See,  there  is  one  of  us  sobbing, 

No  limit  to  his  distress; 

And  another,  a  lord  of  all  things,  praying 


550  MA  UD. 


To  his  own  great  self,  as  I  guess; 

And  another,  a  statesman  there,  betraying 

His  party-secret,  fool,  to  the  press ; 

And  yonder  a  vile  physician,  babbling 

The  case  of  his  patient, — all  for  what? 

To  tickle  the  maggot  born  in  an  empty  head, 

And  wheedle  a  world  that  loves  him  not, 

For  it  is  but  a  world  of  the  dead. 

Nothing  but  idiot  gabble! 

For  the  prophecy  given  of  old 

And  then  not  understood, 

Has  come  to  pass  as  foretold; 

Not  let  any  man  think  for  the  public  good, 

But  babble,  merely  for  babble. 

For  I  never  whisper' d  a  private  affair 

Within  the  hearing  of  cat  or  mouse, 

No,  not  to  myself  in  the  closet  alone, 

But  I  heard  it  shouted  at  once  from  the  top  of  the  house; 

Everything  came  to  be  known: 

Who  told  him  we  were  there? 

Not  that  gray  old  wolf,  for  he  came  not  back 
From  the  wilderness,  full  of  wolves,  where  he  used  to  lie; 
He  has  gather'd  the  bones  for  his  o'ergrown  whelp  to  crack; 
Crack  them  now  for  yourself,  and  howl,  and  die. 

Prophet,  curse  me  the  babbling  lip, 

And  curse  me  the  British  vermin,  the  rat; 

I  know  not  whether  he  came  in  the  Hanover  ship, 

But  I  know  that  he  lies  and  listens  mute 

In  an  ancient  mansion's  crannies  and  holes: 

Arsenic,  arsenic,  sure,  would  do  it, 

I'.xcept  that  now  we  poison  our  babes,  poor  souls! 

It  is  all  used  up  for  that. 

Tell  him  now:  she  is  standing  here  at  my  head; 

Not  beautiful  now,  not  even  kind ; 

He  may  take  her  now ;  for  she  never  speaks  her  mind. 

But  is  ever  the  one  thing  silent  here. 

She  is  not  of  us,  as  I  divine; 

She  comes  from  another  stiller  world  of  the  dead, 

Stiller,  not  fairer  than  mine. 


MA  UD.  551 


But  I  know  where  a  garden  grows, 

Fairer  than  aught  in  the  world  beside; 

All  made  up  of  the  lily  and  rose 

That  blow  by  night,  when  the  season  is  good, 

To  the  sound  of  dancing  music  and  flutes: 

It  is  only  flowers,  they  had  no  fruits, 

And  I  almost  fear  they  are  not  roses,  but  blood; 

For  the  keeper  was  one,  so  full  of  pride, 

He  Hnkt  a  dead  man  there  to  I  spectral  bride; 

For  he,  if  he  had  not  been  a  Sultan  of  brutes, 

Would  he  have  that  hole  in  his  side? 

But  what  will  the  old  man  say? 

He  laid  a  cruel  snare  in  a  pit 

To  catch  a  friend  of  mine  one  stormy  day; 

Yet  now  I  could  even  weep  to  think  of  it; 

For  what  will  the  old  man  say 

When  he  comes  to  the  second  corpse  in  the  pit? 

Friend,  to  be  struck  by  the  public  foe, 
Then  to  strike  him  and  lay  him  low, 
That  were  a  public  merit,  far, 
Whatever  the  Quaker  holds,  from  sin; 
But  the  red  life  spilt  for  a  private  blow — 
I  swear  to  you,  lawful  and  lawless  war 
Are  scarcely  even  akin. 

0  me,  why  have  they  not  buried  me  deep  enough? 
Is  it  kind  to  have  made  mc  a  grave  so  rough, 
Me,  that  was  never  a  quiet  sleeper? 

Mavbe  still  I  am  but  half-dead: 
Then  I  cannot  be  wholly  dumb; 

1  will  cry  to  the  steps  above  my  head, 

And  somebody,  surely,  some  kind  heart  will  come 
To  bury  me,  bury  me 
Deeper,  ever  so  little  deeper. 


XXVIII. 

My  life  has  crept  so  long  on  a  broken  wing 
Thro*  cells  of  madness,  haunts  of  horror  and  fear, 
That  I  come  to  be  grateful  at  last  for  a  little  thing: 
My  mood  is  changed,  for  it  fell  at  a  time  of  year 


552  MAUD. 


When  the  face  of  the  night  is  fair  on  the  dewy  downs, 

And  the  shining  daffodil  dies,  and  the  Charioteer 

And  starry  Gemini  hang  like  glorious  crowns 

Over  Orion's  grave  low  down  in  the  west, 

That  like  a  silent  lightning  under  the  stars 

She  seem'd  to  divide  in  a  dream  from  a  band  of  the  blest, 

And  spoke  of  a  hope  for  the  world  in  the  coming  wars — 

"And  in  that  hope,  dear  soul,  let  trouble  have  rest, 

Knowing  I  tarry  for  thee,"   and  pointed  to  Mars 

As  he  glowed  like  a  ruddy  shield  on  the  Lion's  breast. 

And  it  was  but  a  dream,  yet  it  yielded  a  dear  delight 

To  have  looked,  tho'  but  in  a  dream,  upon  eyes  so  fair, 

That  had  been  in  a  weary  world  my  one  thing  bright; 

And  it  was  but  a  dream,  yet  it  lighten'd  my  despair 

When  I  thought  that  a  war  would  arise  in  defence  of  the  right, 

That  an  iron  tyranny  now  should  bend  or  cease, 

The  glory  of  manhood  stand  on  his  ancient  height, 

Nor  Britain's  one  sole  God  be  the  millionaire : 

No  more  shall  commerce  be  all  in  all,  and  Peace 

Pipe  on  her  pastoral  hillock  a  languid  note, 

And  watch  her  harvest  ripen,  her  herd  increase, 

Nor  the  cannon-bullet  rust  on  a  slothful  shore, 

And  the  cobweb  woven  across  the  cannon's  throat 

Shall  shake  its  threaded  tears  in  the  wind  no  more. 

And  as  months  ran  on  and  rumor  of  battle  £rew, 

"  It  is  time,  it  is  time,  O  passionate  heart,"  said  I 

(For  I  cleav'd  to  a  cause  that  I  felt  to  be  pure  and  true), 

"  It  is  time,  O  passionate  heart  and  morbid  eye, 

That  old  hysterical  mock-disease  should  die." 

And  I  stood  on  a  giant  deck  and  mixed  my  breath 

With  a  loyal  people  shouting  a  battle-cry, 

Till  I  saw  the  dreary  phantom  arise  and  fly 

Far  into  the  North,  and  battle,  and  seas  of  death. 

Let  it  go  or  stay,  so  I  wake  to  the  higher  aims 

Of  a  land  that  has  lost  for  a  little  her  lust  of  gold, 

And  love  of  a  peace  that  was  full  of  wrongs  and  shames, 

Horrible,  hateful,  monstrous,  not  to  be  told; 

And  hail  once  more  to  the  banner  of  battle  unroll'd ! 

Tho'  many  a  light  shall  darken,  and  many  shall  weep 

For  those  that  are  crush'd  in  the  clash  of  jarring  claims, 

Yet  God's  just  wrath  shall  be  wreak'4  on  a  giant  liar; 


MAUD. 


553 


And  many  a  darkness  into  the  light  shall  leap, 
And  shine  in  the  sudden  making  of  splendid  names, 
And  noble  thought  he  freer  under  the  sun, 
And  the  heart  of  a  people  beat  with  <>ne  desire; 

For  the  peace,  that  1  deemed  no  peace)  is  over  and  done, 

And  now  by  '  of  the  Black  and  the    Baltic  deep, 

And  deathful-grinning  mouths  of  the  fortress  llames 

The  blood-red  blOMOm  of  war  with  a  heart  of  fire. 

Let  it   flame  or  fade,  and  the  war  roll  down  like  a  wind, 

We  have  proved  we  have  hearts  in  a  cause,  we  are  noble   still, 

And  myself  have  awaked,  I  US,  to  the  better  mind; 

It  is  better  to  fight  for  th<  lan  to  rail  at  the-  ill; 

I  have  felt  with  my  native  land,  1  am  one  with  my  kind, 

I  embrace  the  purpose  of  God,  and  the  doom  assign'd. 


554 


THE  BROOK. 


THE  BROOK. 


AN    IDYL. 


.ERE,  by  this  brook,  we  parted;  I  to  the  East 
_.  And  he  for  Italy — too  late — too  late: 

One  whom  the  strong  sons  of  the  world  despise 
For  lucky  rhymes  to  him  were  scrip  and  share, 
And  mellow  metres  more  than  cent  for  cent; 
Nor  could  he  understand  how  money  breeds. 
Thought  is  a  dead  thing;  yet  himself  could  make 
The  thing  that  is  not  as  the  thing  that  is. 
O  had  he  lived!     In  our  school-books  we  say, 
Of  those  that  held  their  heads  above  the  crowd, 
They  flourished  then  or  then;  but  life  in  him 
Could  scarce  be  said  to  flourish,  only  touch'd 
On  such  a  time  as  goes  before  the  leaf, 
When  all  the  wood  stands  in  a   mist  of  green, 
And  nothing  perfect:  yet  the  book  he  loved, 
For  which,  in  branding  summers  of  Bengal, 


THE  BROOK. 


555 


Or  ev'n  the  sweet  half-English  Neilgherry  air, 

m ted,  seems,  a^  I  rc-li^tc-n  to  it. 
Prattling  the  primrose  Guides  of  the  boy, 
T<»  me  that  loved  him;  for  kO  brook,'  he  says, 
*0  babbling  brook,'  sayi  Edmund  in  his  rhyme, 
*  Whence  come  you;'  and  the  brook,  why  not?   replies. 


I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  -parkle  out  among  the  fern 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 


By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 


Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 

To  inin  the  brimming  ri 
For  men  may  come  ana  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 


556 


THE  BROOK. 


i  "  Poor  lad,  he  died  at  Florence,  quite  worn  out, 
Travelling  to  Naples.     There  is  Darnley  bridge, 
It  has  more  ivy;  there  the  river;  and  there 
Stands  Philip's  farm  where  brook  and  river  meet. 


I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles, 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 


I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 


"But  Philip  chatter'd  more  than  brook  or  bird; 
Old  Philip;  all  about  the  fields  you  caught 


THE  BROOK.  557 


His  weary  daylong  chirping,  like  the  dry 
High-elbow'd  grigs  that  leap  in  summer  grass. 


I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  (here  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 


"O  darling  Katie  Willows,  his  one  child! 
A  maiden  of  our  century,  yet  most  mn 
A  daughter  of  our  meadows,  yet  not  coarse; 
Straight,  but  as  lissome  as  a  hazel  wand ; 
Her  eyes  a  bashful  azure,  and  her  hair 
In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when  the  shell 
Divides  threefold  to  show  the  fruit  within. 

"  Sweet  Katie,  once  I  did  her  a  good  turn, 
Her  and  her  far-off  cousin  and  betrothed, 
James  Willows,  of  one  name  and  heart  with  her. 
For  here  I  came,  twenty  years  back, — the  week 
Before  I  parted  with  poor  Edmund ;  crost 
By  that  old  bridge  which,  half  in  ruins  then, 
Still  makes  a  hoary  eyebrow  for  the  gleam 
Beyond  it,  where  the  waters  marry-— crost, 
Whistling  a  random  bar  of  Bonny  Doon, 
And  pushVl  at  Philip's  garden-gate.     The  gate, 
Half-parted  from  a  weak  and  scolding  hinge, 
Stuck;  and  he  clamorM  from  a  casement,  *  Run  ' 
To  Katie  somewhere  in  the  walks  below. 
*  Run,  Katie!'  Katie  never  ran:  she  moved 
To  meet  me,  winding  under  woodbine  bowers, 
A  little  fluttered  with  her  eyelids  down, 
Fresh  apple  blossom,  blushing  for  a  boon. 


>58  THE  BROOK. 


"  What  was  it?  less  of  sentiment  than  sense 
Had  Katie;  not  illiterate;  neither  one 
Who  dabbling  in  the  fount  of  fieri ve  tears, 
And  nursed  by  mealy-mouthed  philanthropies. 
Divorce  the  Feeling  from  her  mate  the  Deed. 

"She  told  me.     She  and  James  had  quarrell'd.     Why? 
What  cause  of  quarrel?     None,  she  said,  no  cause; 
James  had  no  cause :  but  when  I  prest  the  cause, 
I  learnt  that  James  had  flickering  jealousies 
Which  anger'd  her.      Who  anger'd  James?  I  said. 
But  Katie  snatch'd  her  eyes  at  once  from  mine, 
And  sketching  with  her  slender-pointed  foot 
Some  figure  like  a  wizard's  pentagram 
On  garden  gravel,  let  my  query  pass 
Unclaim'd,  in  flushing  silence,  till  I  ask'd 
If  James  were  comings     '  Coming  every  day,' 
She  answer'd,  c  ever  longing  to  explain, 
But  evermore  her  father  came  across 
With  some  long-winded  tale,  and  broke  him  short; 
And  James  departed  vext  with  him  and  her.' 
How  could  I  help  her?     «  Wrould  I — was  it  wrong?' 
(Claspt  hands  and  that  petitionary  grace 
Of  sweet  seventeen  subdued  me  ere  she  spoke) 
4  O  would  I  take  her  father  for  one  hour, 
For  one  half-hour,  and  let  him  talk  to  me!' 
And  even  while  she  spoke,  I  saw  where  James 
Made  towards  us,  like  a  wader  in  the  surf, 
Beyond  the  brook,  waist-deep  in  meadow-sweet. 

"  O  Katie,  what  I  sufTer'd  for  your  sake! 
For  I  went  in  and  call'd  old  Philip  out 
To  show  the  farm :  full  willingly  he  rose: 
He  led  me  through  the  short  sweet-smelling  lanes 
Of  his  wheat  suburb,  babbling  as  he  went. 
He  praised  his  land,  his  horses,  his  machines; 
He  praised  his  ploughs,  his  cows,  his  hogs,  his  dogs: 
He  praised  his  hens,  his  geese,  his  guinea-hens; 
His  pigeons,  who  in  session  on  their  roofs 
Approved  him, bowing  at  their  own  deserts; 
Then  from  the  plaintive  mother's  teat,  he  took 
Her  blind  and  shuddering  puppies,  naming  each, 
And  naming  those,  his  friends,  for  whom  they  were; 
Then  crost  the  common  into  Darnley  chase 


THE  BROOK 


559 


To  show  Sir  Arthur's  deer.      In  copse  and  fern 
Twinkled  the  innumerable  eai  and  tail. 
Then,  seated  on  a  serpent-rooted  beech. 

He  pointed  out  a  pasturing  colt,  and  said: 
4  That  was  the  four-year-old  I  sold  tlu-  Squire.1 
And  there  he  told  a  long,  long-winded  tale 
Of  how  the  Squire  had  seen   the  coil    Bi 

And  how  it  wan  the  thing  his  daughtei  vrish'd, 

And  how  he  sent  the  bailiff  to  the  farm 

To  learn  the  price,  and  what   the  price  he  ask'd, 

And  how  tite  bailiff  swore  that  lie  was  mad. 

But  he  stood  firm;  and  so  the  matter  bung; 

He  gave  them  line;  and  five  days  after  that 

He  met  the  bailiff  at  the  Golden  Fh 

Who  then  and  there  had  ofier'd   something  more, 

But  he  stood  firm;  and  so  the  matter  hung; 

He  knew  the  man;  the  colt  would  fetch  its  price; 

He  gave  them  line;  and  how  by  chance  at  last 

(It  might  he  May  or  April,  he  forgot, 

The  last  of  April  or  the  first  of  Ma\  ) 

He  found  the  bailiff  riding  by  the  farm. 

And,  talking  from  the  point,  he  drew  him  in, 

And  there  he  mellow'd  all  his  heart  with  ale, 

Until  they  closed  a  bargain,  hand  in  hand. 


"Then,  while  I  breathed  in  right  of  haven,  he, 
Poor  fellow,  could  he  help  H  nmenced, 

And  ran  thro'  all  the  coltish  chronicle, 


560  THE  BROOK. 


Wild  Will,  Black  Bess,  Tantivy,  Tallyho, 
Reform,  White  Rose,  Bellerophon,  the  Jilt, 
Arbaces  and  Phenomenon,  and  the  rest, 
Till,  not  to  die  a  listener,  I  arose, 
And  with  me  Philip,  talking  still;  and  so 
He  turn'd  our  foreheads  from  the  falling-  sun, 
And  following  our  own  shadows  thrice  as  long 
As  when  they  follow'd  us  from   Philip's  door, 
Arrived,  and  found  the  sun  of  sweet  content 
Pe-risen  in  Katie's  eyes,  and  all  things  well. 


I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots, 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 


I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows; 
make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

Yes,  men  may  come  and  go;  and  these  are  gone, 

All  gone.     My  dearest  brother,  Edmund,  sleeps, 

Not  by  the  well-known  stream  and  rustic  spire, 

But  unfamiliar  Arno,  and  the  dome 

Of  Brunelleschi;  sleeps  in  peace:  and  he, 

Poor  Philip,  of  all  his  lavish  waste  of  words 

Remains  the  lean  P.  W.,  on  his  tomb: 

I  scraped  the  lichen  from  it:  Katie  walks 

By  the  long  wash  of  Australasian  seas 

Far  off,  and  holds  her  head  to  other  stars, 

And  breathes  in  converse  seasons.     All  are  gone.' 

So  Lawrence  Alymer,  seated  on  a  stile 
In  the  long  hedge,  and  rolling  in  his  mind 
Old  waifs  of  rhyme,  and  bowing  o'er  the  brook 


"Not  by  the  well-known  stream  and  rustic  spire, 
But  unfamiliar  Arno,  and  the  dome 
OfBrunellescln." 


THE  BROOK.  561 


A  tonsured  head  in  middle  age  forlorn, 

Mused,  and  wai  mute.    On  a  sodden  ■  low  breath 

Of  tender  air  made  tremble  in    the  hedj 

The  fragile  brndweed-beHa  and  briony  rii 
And  he  look'd  op.     There  stood  a  maiden  n 
Waiting  to  pas-.,     in  much  amaze  he  stand 

On  eyes  a  bashful  a/ure,  and  on  hair 

In  gl<>-s  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when  the  shell 
Divides  threefold  to  show  the  fruit  within: 
Then,  wondering,  ask'd  her,  k*  Are  you  from  the  farm? 
M  Yes,*1  answer'd  she.    M  Pray  stay  ■  little:  pardon  mej 

What  do  they  call  yon:"'      k*  Katie."      "That  Were   strange. 
What  surname?  "     "  Willows."     M  No!  "     "  That  i-  my  name." 
»  Indeed!"   and  here  lie  look'd  so  self-perpll 
That  Katie  Uiugh'd,  and  laughing  blush'd,  till  he 

Laugh'd  also,  but  as  one  before  he  wall 

Who  feels  a  glimmering  strangeness  i"  his  dream. 

Then  looking  at  her:  «  Too  happy,  fresh  and  fair, 

Too  fresh  and  fair  in  our  sad  worlds  best  bloom, 
To  be  the  ghost  of  one  who  bore  your  n 

About  these  meadows,  twenty  years  a*;o." 

«  Have  yon  not  heard?  "  said  Katie,  «  we  came  back. 
We  bought  the  farm  we  tenanted  before. 
Am  I  so  like  her?  so  they  said  on  boa  id. 
Sir,  if  you  knew  her  in  her  English  days, 
My  mother,  as  it  seems  yon  did,  the  daya 
Tiiat  most  she  loves  to  talk  of,  come  with  inc. 

My  brother  Jamea  is  in  the  harvest. field: 

Hut  she — you  will  he  welcome — O,  come  ln!M 


562 


THE  DAIS  T 


THE  JDAISr. 


WRITTEN    AT    EDINBURGH. 


LOVE,  what;  hours  were  thine  and  mine, 
In  lands  of  palm  and  southern  pine; 

In  lands  of  palm,  of  orange-blossom, 
Of  olive,  aloe,  and  maize  and  vine. 


What  Roman  strength  Turbia  show'd 
In  ruin,  by  the  mountain  road; 

How  like  a  gem,  beneath,  the  city 
Of  little  Monaco,  basking,  glow'd. 

How  richly  down  the  rocky  dell 
The  torrent  vineyard   streaming  fell 

To  meet  the  sun  and  sunny  waters, 
That  only  heaved  with  a  summer  swell. 


What  slender  campanili  grew 

By  bays,  the  peacock's  neck  in  hue ; 

Where,  here  and  there,  on  sandy  beaches 
A  milky-bell'd  amaryllis  blew. 

How  young  Columbus  seem'd  to  rove, 
Yet  present  in  his  natal  grove, 

Now  watching  high  on  mountain  cornice, 
And  steering,  now,  from  a  purple  cove, 

Now  pacing  mute  by  ocean's  rim; 
Till,  in  a  narrow  street  and  dim, 

I  stay'd  the  wheels  at  Cogoletto, 
And  drank,  and  loyally  drank  to  him. 


Nor  knew  we  well  what  pleased  us  most, 
Not  the  dipt  palm  of  which  they  boast; 

But  distant  color,  happy  hamlet, 
A  moulder'd  citadel  on  the  coast, 


"A  moulder'd  citadel  on  the  coast, 
Or  tower,  or  high  hill-coo  vent" 


THE  DAIST.  Ui3 


Or  tower,  or  high  hill-convent,  seen 
A  light  amid  its  olives  green ; 

Or  olive-hoary  cape  in  ocean; 
Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine, 

Where  oleanders  flush'd  the  bed 
Of  silent  torrents,  gravel-spread  ; 

And,  crossing,  oft  we  saw  the  glisten 
Of  ice,  far  up  on  a  mountain  head. 

We  lov'd  that  hall,  tho'  white  and   cold, 
Those  niched  shapes  of  noble  mould, 
A  princely  people's  awful  princes, 
The  grave,  severe  Genovese  of  old. 

At  Florence  too  what  golden  hours, 
In  those  long  galleries,  were  ours; 

What  drives  about  the  fresh  Cascine, 
Or  walks  in  Boboli's  ducal  bowers. 

In  bright  vignettes,  and  each  complete, 
Of  tower  or  duomo,  sunny-sweet, 

Or  palace,  how  the  city  glitter'd, 
Thro7  cypress  avenues,  at  our  feet. 

But  when  we  crost  the  Lombard  plain 
Remember  what  a  plague  of  rain; 

Of  rain  at  Reggio,  rain  at  Parma; 
At  Lodi,  rain,  Piacenza,  rain. 

And  stern  and  sad  (so  rare  the  smiles 
Of  sunlight)  look'd  the  Lombard  piles; 

Porch-pillars  on  the  lion  resting, 
And  sombre,  old,  colonnaded  aisles. 

0  Milan,  O  the  chanting  quires, 
The  giant  windows'  blazon'd  fires, 

The  height,  the  space,  the  gloom,  the  glory! 
A  mount  of  marble,  a  hundred  spires! 

1  climb'd  the  roofs  at  break  of  day; 
Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 


164 


THE  DAISY. 


I  stood  among  the  silent  statues, 
And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 


ppiiW*  ("~     -■--—: i 


How  faintly-flush'd,  how  phantom -fair, 
Was  Monte  Rosa,  hanging  there 

A  thousand  shadowy-pencil'd  valleys 
And  snowy  dells  in  a  golden  air. 

Remember  how  we  came  at  last 
To  Como;  shower  and  storm  and  blast 
Had  blown  the  lake  beyond  his  limit, 
And  all  was  flooded;  and  how  we  past 

From  Como,  when  the  light  was  gray, 
And  in  my  head,  for  half  the  day, 

The  rich  Virgilian  rustic  measure 
Of  Lari  Maxume,  all  the  way, 

Like  ballad-burthen  music,  kept, 
As  on  the  Lariano  crept 

To  that  fair  port  below  the  castle 
Of  Queen  Theodolind,  where  we  slept; 


Or  hardly  slept,  but  watch'd  awake 
A  cypress  in  the  moonlight  shake, 

The  moonlight  touching  o'er  a  terrace 
One  tall  Agave  above  the  lake. 


THE  DAIST. 


565 


What  more?  we  took  our  last  adieu, 
And  up  the  snowy  Splugen  drew, 

But  ere  we  reach'd  the  highest  summit 
I  pluckM  a  daisy,  I  gave  it  you. 

It  told  of  England  then  to  me, 
And  now  it  tells  of  Italy. 

O  love,  we  two  shall  go  no  longer 
To  lands  of  summer  across  the  sea; 

So  dear  a  life  your  arms  enfold 
Whose  crying  is  a  cry  for  gold: 

Yet  here  to-night  in  this  dark  city, 
When  ill  and  weary,  alone  and  cold, 

I  found,  tho'  crush'd  to  hard  and  dry, 
This  nurseling  of  another  sky 

Still  in  the  little  book  you  lent  me, 
And  where  you  tenderly  laid  it  by: 

And  I  forgot  the  clouded  Forth, 

The  gloom  that  saddens  Heaven  and  Earth, 

The  bitter  East,  the   misty  summer 
And  gray  metropolis  of  the  North. 

Perchance,  to  lull  the  throbs  of  pain, 
Perchance,  to  charm  a  vacant  brain, 

Perchance,  to  dream  you  still  beside  me. 
My  fancy  fled  to  the  South  again. 


566 


TO  THE  REV.  F.  D.  MAURICE. 


TO  THE  RE  V.  F.  D,  MA  URICE. 


OME,  when  no  graver  cares  employ, 
God-father,  come  and  see  your  boy: 
Your  presence  will  be  sun  in  winter, 
^Making  the  little  one  leap  for  joy 

For,  being  of  that  honest  few, 
Who  give  the  Fiend  himself  his  due, 
Should  eighty  thousand  college  councils 
Thunder  "Anathema,"  friend,  at  you; 

S5  Should  all  our  churchmen  foam  in  spite 
At  you,  so  careful  of  the  right, 

Yet  one  lay-hearth  would  give  you  welcome 
(Take  it  and  come)  to  the  Isle  of  Wight; 

Where,  far  from  noise  and  smoke  of  town 
I  watch  the  twilight  falling  brown 

All  round  a  careless  order' d  garden 
Close  to  the  ridge  of  a  noble  down. 


You'll  have  no  scandal  while  you  dine, 
But  honest  talk  and  wholesome  wine, 

And  only  hear  the  magpie  gossip 
Garrulous  under  a  roof  of  pine: 

For  graves  of  pine  on  either  hand, 
To  break  the  blast  of  winter,  stand : 

And  further  on,  the  hoary  Channel 
Tumbles  a  breaker  on  chalk  and  sand ; 


Where,  if  below  the  milky  steep 
Some  ship  of  battle  slowly  creep, 

And  on  thro'  zones  of  light  and  shadow 
Glimmer  away  to  the  lonely  deep, 


TO  THE  RE  V.  F.  D.  MA  URICE.  507 

We  might  discuss  the  Northern  sin 
Which  made  a  selfish  war  begin; 

Dispute  the  claims,  arrange  the  chances; 
Emperor,  Ottoman,  which  shall  win: 

Or  whether  war's  avenging  rod 
Shall  lash  all  Europe  into  blood; 

Till  you  should  turn  to  clearer  matters. 
Dear  to  the  man  that  is  dear  to  God; 

How  best  to  help  the  slender  store, 
How  men  1  the  dwellings,  of  the  poor; 

How  gain  in  life,  as  life  advances, 
Valor  and  charity,  more  and    more. 

Come,  Maurice,  come:  the  lawn  as  yet 
Is  hoar  with  rime,  or  spongy-wet; 

Hut  then  the  wreath  of  March  has  blossom'd, 
Crocus,  anemone,  violet. 

Or  later,  pay  one  visit  here, 

For  those  are  few  we  hold  as  dear; 

Nor  pay  but  one,  but  come  for  many, 
Many  and  many  a  happy  year. 

January,  1854. 


568 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 


THE    CHARGE  OE  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 


A.LF  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Haifa  league  onward, 

in  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 
Forward,  the  Light  Brigade! 
Charge  for  the  guns!"  he  said: 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade !" 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'd? 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blunder'd: 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die: 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


Cannon  to  right  of  them 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash'd  as  they  turn'd  in  air, 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 
All  the  world  wonder'd : 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  L/C  J/  T  BRIGADE. 


569 


Plung'd  in  the  battery  smoke, 
Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke; 
Cossack  ami  Russian 
ReePd  from  the  sabre  stroke 

Shatter'd  and  sunder  < I. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not, 
Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 
Volley'd  and  thunder'd; 


Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro1  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 
Left  of  six  hundred. 


570 


WILL. 


When  can  their  glory  fade? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred! 


'•*pS*3m*k'Z&*~ 


WILL. 


WELL  for  him  whose  will  is  strong! 
_J|  He  suffers,  but  he  will  not  suffer  long*; 
I^pf     He  suffers,  but  he  cannot  suffer  wrong ; 

For  him  nor  moves  the  loud  world's  random  mock, 
Nor  all  Calamity's  hugest  waves  confound, 
LWho  seems  a  promontory  of  rock, 
That,  compass'd  round  with  turbulent  sound, 
In  middle  ocean  meets  the  surging  shock, 
Tempest-buffeted,  citadel-crown'd. 


But  ill  for  him  who,  bettering  not  with  time, 

Corrupts  th6  strength  of  heaven-descended  Will, 

And  ever  weaker  grows  thro'  acted  crime, 

Or  seeming-genial  venial  fault, 

Recurring  and  suggesting  still! 

He  seems  as  one  whose  footsteps  halt, 

Toiling  in  immeasurable  sand, 

And  o'er  a  weary,  sultry  land, 

Far  beneath  a  blazing  vault, 

Sown  in  a  wrinkle  of  the  monstrous  hill, 

The  city  sparkles  like  a  grain  of  salt. 


THE   GRANDMOTHER. 


571 


THE  GRANDMOTHER, 


ND  Willy,  my  eldest-born,  is  gone,  you  sav,  little  Annie? 
t Ruddy,  and  white,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  he  looks  like  a 
man. 
And  Willy's  wife  lias  written-,   she  never  was  over-wise, 
Never  the  wife  for  Willy:  he  wouldn't  take  my  advice. 


For,  Annie,  you  see,  her  lather  was  not  the  man  to  save, 
Hadn't  a  head  to  manage,  and  drank  himself  into   his  grave. 
Pretty  enough,  very  pretty!   hut  I  was  against  it  for  one. 
Eh  I — but  he  wouldn't  hear  me — and  Willy,  you  say,  is  gone. 

Willy,  my  beauty,  my  eldest  -born,  the  flower  of  the  flock, 
Never  a  man  could  fling  him:  for  Willy  stood  like  a  rock. 
M  Here's  a  leg  for  a  baby  of  a  week!  "  Bays  doctor:  and    he  woi  <1 

be  bound 
There  was  not  his  like  that  year  in  twenty  parishes  round. 


Strong  of  his  hands,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  but  still  of  his  tongue  I 
I  ought  to  have  gone  before  him:  I  wonder  he  went  so  young. 
I  cannot  civ  for  him,  Annie:   I  have  not  long  to  stay; 
Perhaps  I  shall  see  him  the  sooner,  for  he  lived  far  away. 

Why  do  you  look  at  me,  Annie?  you  think  I  am  hard  and  cold; 
But  all  my  children  have  gone  before  me,  I  am  so  old: 
I  cannot  weep  for  Willy,  nor  can  I  weep  for  the  rest; 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the  best. 

For  I  remember  a  quarrel  I  had  with  your  father,  my  dear. 
All  for  a  slanderous  story,  that  cost  me  many  a  tear, 
I  mean  your  grandfather,  Annie:  it  cost  me  a  world  of  woe, 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 


For  Jenny,  my  cousin,  had  come  to  the  place,  and  I  knew  right  weli 
That  Jenny  had  tript  in  her  time:   I  knew,  but  I  would  not  tell. 
And  she  to  be  coming  and  slandering  me,  the  base  little  liar! 
But  the  tongue  is  a  fire,  as  you  know,  my  dear,  the  tongue  is  a  fire 


572  THE    GRANDMOTHER. 


And  the  parson  made  it  his  text  that  week,  and  he  said  likewise, 
That  a  lie  which  is  half  a  truth  is  ever  the  blackest  of  lies, 
That  a  lie  which  is  all  a  lie  may  be  met  and  fought  with  outright, 
But  a  lie  which  is  part  a  truth  is  a  harder  matter  to  fight. 

And  Willy  had  not  been  down  to  the  farm  for  a  week  and  a  day; 
And  all  things  look'd  half-dead,  tho'  it  was  the  middle  of  May 
Jenny,  to  slander  me,  who  knew  what  Jenny  had  been! 
But  soiling  another,  Annie,  will  never  make  one's  self  clean. 

And  I  cried  myself  well-nigh  blind,  and  all  of  an  evening  late 

I  climb'd  to  the  top  of  the  garth,  and  stood  by  the  road  at  the  gate. 

The  moon  like  a  rick  on  fire  was  rising  over  the  dale, 

And  whit,  whit,  whit,  in  the  bush  beside  me  chirrupt  the  nightingale. 

All  of  a  sudden  he  stopt:  there  past  by  the  gate  of  the  farm, 
Willy, — he  didn't  see  me, — and  Jenny  hung  on  his  arm. 
Out  into  the  road  I  started,  and  spoke  I  scarce  knew  how; 
Ah,  there's  no  fool  like  the  old  one — it  makes  me  angry  now. 

Willy  stood  up  like  a  man,  and  look'd  the  thing  that  he  meant; 
Jenny,  the  viper,  made  me  a  mocking  courtesy  and  went. 
And  I  said,  "  Let  us  part:  in  a  hundred  years  it'll  all  be  the  samev 
You  cannot  love  me  at  all,  if  you  love  not  my  good  name." 

And  he  turn'd,  and  I  saw  his  eyes  all  wet,  in  the  sweet  moonshine: 
"  Sweetheart,  I  love  you  so  well  that  your  good  name  is  mine. 
And  what  do  I  care  for  Jane,  let  her  speak  of  you  well  or  ill; 
But  marry  me  out  of  hand:  we  two  shall  be  happy  still." 

"  Marry  you,  Willy!  "   said  I,  "  but  I  needs  must  speak  my  mind, 
And  I  fear  you'll  listen  to  tales,  be  jealous  and  hard  and  unkind." 
But  he  turn'd  and  claspt  me  in  his  arms,  and  answer'd,  "  No,  love,  no; " 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 

So  Willy  and  I  were  wedded :  I  wore  a  lilac  gown ; 
And  the  ringers  rang  with  a  will,  and  he  gave  the  ringers  a  crown. 
But  the  first  that  ever  I  bare  was  dead  before  he  was  born, 
Shadow  and  shine  is  life,  little  Annie,  flower  and  thorn. 

That  was  the  first  time,  too,  that  ever  I  thought  of  death. 
There  lay  the  sweet  little  body  that  never  had  drawn  a  breath. 


THE    GRANDMOTHER  573 


I  had  not  wept,  little  Annie,  not  since  I  had  been  a  wife; 

But  I  wept  like  a  child  that  day,  for  the  babe  had  fought  for  his  life. 

His  dear  little  face  was  troubled,  as  if  with  anger  or  pain: 

I  look'd  at  the  still  little  body — his  trouble  had  all  been  in  vain. 

For  Willy  I  cannot  weep,  I  shall  see  him  another  morn: 

But  I  wept  like  a  child  for  the  child  that  was  dead  before  he  was  born 

But  he  cheer'd  me,  my  good  man,  for  he  seldom  said  me  nay: 
Kind,  like  a  man,  was  he;  like  a  man,  too,  would  have  his  way: 
Never  jealous — not  he:  we  had  many  a  happy  year; 
And  he  died,  and  I  could  not  weep — my  own  time  seem'd  so  near. 

But  I  wish'd  it  had  been  God's  will  that  I,  too,  then  could  have  died 
I  began  to  be  tired  a  little,  and  fain  had  slept  at  his  side. 
And  that  was  ten  years  back,  or  more,  if  I  don't  forget: 
But  as  to  the  children,  Annie,  they're  all  about  me  yet. 

Pattering  over  the  boards,  my  Annie,  who  left  me  at  two, 
Patter  she  goes,  my  own  little  Annie,  an  Annie  like  you: 
Pattering  over  the  boards,  she  comes  and  goes  at  her  will, 
While  Harry  is  in  the  five-acre  and  Charlie  ploughing  the  hill. 

And  Harry  and  Charlie,  I  hear  them  too — they  sing  to  their  team : 
Often  they  come  to  the  door  in  a  pleasant  kind  of  a  dream. 
They  come  and  sit  by  my  chair,  they  hover  about  my  bed — 
I  am  not  always  certain  if  they  be  alive  or  dead. 

And  yet  I  know  for  a  truth,  there's  none  of  them  left  alive; 
For  Harry  went  at  sixty,  your  father  at  sixty-five: 
And  Willy,  my  eldest-born,  at  nigh  threescore  and  ten: 
I  knew  them  all  as  babies,  and  now  they're  elderly  men. 

For  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  it  is  not  often  I  grieve: 
I  am  oftener  sitting  at  home  in  my  father's  farm  at  eve: 
And  the  neighbors  come  and  laugh  and  gossip,  and  so  do  I; 
I  find  myself  often  laughing  at  things  that  have  long  gone  by. 


To  be  sure  the  preacher  says,  our  sins  should  make  us  sad: 
But  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  and  there  is  Grace  to  be  had; 
And  God,  not  man,  is  the  Judge  of  us  all  when  life  shall  cease: 
And  in  this  Book,  little  Annie,  the  message  is  one  of  Peace. 


574 


THE  LETTERS 


And  age  is  a  time  of  peace,  so  it  be  free  from  pain, 
And  happy  has  been  my  life;  but  I  would  not  live  it  again. 
I  seem  to  be  tired  a  little,  that's  all,  and  long  for  rest: 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the  best. 

So  Willie  has  gone,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-born,  my  flower; 
But  how  can  I  weep  for  Willy,  he  has  but  gone  for  an  hour, — 
Gone  for  a  minute,  my  son,  from  this  room  into  the  next; 
I  too,  shall  go  in  a  minute.      What  time  have  I  to  be  vext? 

• 

And  Willy's  wife  has  written,  she  never  was  over-wise. 
Get  me  my  glasses,  Annie:  thank  God  that  I  keep  my  eyes. 
There  is  but  a  trifle  left  you,  when  I  shall  have  passed  away. 
But  stay  with  the  old  woman  now:  you  cannot  have  long  to  stay. 


->$=5<£^|r<fc=<< 


THE  LETTERS. 


TILL  on  the  tower  stood  the  vane, 

A  black  yew  gloom'd  the  stagnant  air 
I  peer'd  athwart  the  chancel  pane 

And  saw  the  altar  cold  and  bare. 
A  clog  of  lead  was  round  my  feet, 

A  band  of  pain  across  my  brow; 
u  Cold  altar,  Heaven  and  earth  shall  meet 

Before  you  hear  my  marriage  vow." 


I  turn'd  and  humm'd  a  bitter  song 

That  mock'd  the  wholesome  human  heart, 
And  then  we  met  in  wrath  and  wrong, 

We  met,  but  only  meant  to  part. 
Full  cold  my  greeting  was  and  dry; 

She  faintly  smiled,  she  hardly  moved; 
I  saw  with  half-unconscious  eye 

She  wore  the  colors  I  approved. 


THE  LETTERS. 


575 


She  took  the  little  ivory  chest, 

With  half  a  sigh  she  turnM  the  key, 
Then  raised  her  head  with  lips  comprest, 

And  gave  my  letters  back  to  me. 
And  gave  the  trinkets  and  the  rings, 

My  gifts,  when  gifts  of  mine  could  please; 
As  looks  a  father  on  the  things 

Of  his  dead  -<>n,  I  look'd  on  tl 


She  told  me  all  her  friends  had  said; 

I  raged  against  the  public  liar; 
She  talk'd  as  if  her  love  were  dead, 

But  in  my  words  were  seeds  of  fire. 


576 


THE  LETTERS. 


"  No  more  of  love;  your  sex  is  known: 
I  never  will  be  twice  deceived. 

Henceforth  I  trust  the  man  alone, 
The  woman  cannot  be  believed. 

"  Thro'  slander,  meanest  spawn  of  Hell 

(And  women's  slander  is  the  worst), 
And  you,  whom  once  I  loved  so  well, 

Thro'  you,  my  life  will  be  accurst." 
I  spoke  with  heart,  and  heat,  and  force, 

I  shook  her  breast  with  vague  alarms — 
Like  torrents  from  a  mountain  source 

We  rush'd  into  each  other's  arms. 

We  parted:  sweetly  gleam'd  the  stars, 
And  sweet  the  vapor-braided  blue, 

Low  breezes  fann'd  the  belfry  bars, 
'  As  homeward  by  the  church  I  drew. 

The  very  graves  appeared  to  smile, 
So  fresh  they  rose  in  shadow'd  swells; 

G5  Dark  porch,"  I  said,  "  and  silent  aisle, 
There  comes  a  sound  of  marriage  bells." 


ri»)T*r*y>ttW*r«»«l*»«««««rT|TjjyTjirrnrTiiiinf  ii  i  :  i  ii  i  i  i  in  iii  in  inn  .  i  ti        \     r> 


^•^•;H 


? 


DEDICA  TION. 


579 


DEDICATION, 


HESE  to  His  memory — since  he  held  them  dear. 
Perchance  as  finding  there  unconsciously 
Some  image  of  himself — I  dedicate, 
I  dedicate,  I  consecrate  with  tears — 
These  Idyls. 

And  indeed  He  seems  to  me 
Scarce  other  than  my  own  ideal  knight, 
"Who  reverenced  his  conscience  as  his  king; 
Whose  glory  was,  redressing  human  wron<: ; 
Who  spake  no  slander,  no,  nor  listened  to  it; 
Who  loved  one  only  and  who  clave  to  her — " 
Her — over  all  whose  realms  to  their  last  isle, 
Commingled  with  the  gloom  of  imminent  war, 
The  shadow  of  His  loss  moved  like  eclipse, 
Darkening  the  world.     We  have  lost  him:  he  is  gone* 
We  know  him  now:  ail  narrow  jealousies 
Are  silent:  and  we  see  him  as  he  moved, 
How  modest,  kindly,  all-accomplish'd,  wise, 
With  what  sublime  repression  of  himself, 
And  in  what  limits,  and  how  tenderly; 
Not  swaying  to  this  faction  or  to  that; 
Not  making  his  high  place  the  lawless  perch 
Of  wingM  ambitions,  nor  a  vantage-ground 
For  pleasure:  but  thro'  all  this  tract  of  years 
Wearing  the  white  flower  of  a  blameless  life, 
Before  a  thousand  peering  littlenesses, 
In  that  fierce  light  which  beats  upon  a  throne, 
And  blackens  every  blot ;  for  where  is  he, 
Who  dares  foreshadow  for  an  only  son 
A  lovelier  life,  a  more  unstain'd,  than  his? 
Or  how  should  England  dreaming  of  his  sons 
Hope  more  for  these  than  some  inheritance 
Of  such  a  life,  a  heart,  a  mind  as  thine, 
Thou  noble  Father  of  her  Kings  to  be. 
Laborious  for  her  people  and  her  poor — 
Voice  in  the  rich  dawn  of  an  ampler  day — 
Far-sighted  summoner  of  War  and  Waste 


580  DEDICATION. 


To  fruitful  strifes  and  rivalries  of  peace — 
Sweet  nature  gilded  by  the  gracious  gleam 
Of  letters,  dear  to  Science,  dear  to  Art, 
Dear  to  thy  land  and  ours,  a  Prince  indeed, 
Beyond  all  titles,  and  a  household  name, 
Hereafter,  thro'  all  times,  Albert  the  Good. 


Break  not,  O  woman's-heart,  but  still  endure ; 
Break  not,  for  thou  art  Royal,  but  endure, 
Remembering  all  the  beauty  of  that  star 
Which  shone  so  close  beside  Thee,  that  ye  made 
One  light  together,  but  has  past  and  left 
The  Crown  of  lonely  splendor. 

May  all  love, 
His  love,  unseen  but  felt,  o'ershadow  Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  sons  encompass  Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  daughters  cherish  Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  people  comfort  Thee, 
Till  God's  love  set  Thee  at  his  side  again  1 


ENID. 


ENID. 


581 


ENID. 


HE  brave  Geraint,  knight  of  Arthur's  court, 
A  tributary  prince  of  Devon,  one 
Of  that  great  order  of  the  Table  Round, 
Had  wedded  Enid,  Yniol's  only  child, 
And  loved  her,  as  he  loved  the  light  of  Heaven. 
And  as  the  light  of  Heaven  varies,  now 
At  sunrise,  now  at  sunset,  now  by  night 
With  moon  and  trembling  stars,  so  loved  Geraint 
To  make  her  beauty  vary  day  by  day, 
In  crimsons  and  in  purples  and  in  gems. 
And  Enid,  but  to  please  her  husband's  eye, 
Who  first  had  found  and  loved  her  in  a  state 
Of  broken  fortunes,  daily  fronted  him 
In  some  fresh  splendor;  and  the  Queen  herself, 
Grateful  to  Prince  Geraint  for  service  done, 
Loved  her  and  often  with  her  own  white  hands 
Array'd  and  deck'd  her,  as  the  loveliest, 
Next  after  her  own  self,  in  all  the  court. 
And  Enid  loved  the  Queen,  and  with  true  hear! 
Adored  her,  as  the  stateliest  and  the  best 
And  loveliest  of  all  women  upon  earth. 
And  seeing  them  so  tender  and  so  close, 
Long  in  their  common  love  rejoiced  Geraint. 
But  when  a  rumor  rose  about  the  Queen, 
Touching  her  guilty  love  for  Lancelot, 
Though  yet  there  lived  no  proof,  nor  yet  was  heard 
The  world's  loud  whisper  breaking  into  storm, 
Not  less  Geraint  believed  it;  and  there  fell 
A  horror  on  him,  lest  his  gentle  wife, 
Thro'  that  great  tenderness  to  Guinevere, 
Had  suffered  or  should  suffer  any  taint 
In  nature:  wherefore  going  to  the  king, 
He  made  this  pretext,  that  his  princedom  lay 
Close  on  the  borders  of  a  territory, 
Wherein  were  bandit  earls,  and  caitiff  knights, 
Assassins,  and  all  flyers  from  the  hand 


582  ENID. 


Of  justice,  and  whatever  loathes  a  law: 

And  therefore,  till  the  king  himself  should  please 

To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all  his  realm, 

He  craved  a  fair  permission  to  depart, 

And  there  defend  his  marches;  and  the  king 

Mused  for  a  little  on  his  plea,  but,  last, 

Allowing  it,  the  prince  and  Enid  rode, 

And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them,  to  the  shores 

Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own  land ; 

Where,  thinking,  that  if  ever  yet  was  wife 

True  to  her  lord,  mine  shall  be  so  to  me, 

He  compassed  her  with  sweet  observances 

And  worship,  never  leaving  her,  and  grew 

Forgetful  of  his  promise  to  the  king, 

Forgetful  of  the  falcon  and  the  hunt, 

Forgetful  of  the  tilt  and  tournament, 

Forgetful  of  his  glory  and  his  name, 

Forgetful  of  his  princedom  and  its  cares. 

And  this  forgetfulness  was  hateful  to  her. 

And  by  and  by  the  people,  when  they  met, 

In  twos  and  threes,  or  fuller  companies, 

Began  to  scoff  and  jeer  and  babble  of  him 

As  of  a  prince  whose  manhood  was  all  gone, 

And  molten  down  in  mere  uxoriousness. 

And  this  she  gathered  from  the  people's  eyes: 

This  too  the  women  who  attired  her  head, 

To  please  her,  dwelling  on  his  boundless  love, 

Told  Enid,  and  they  saddened  her  the  more: 

And  day  by  day  she  thought  to  tell  Geraint, 

But  could  not  out  of  bashful  delicacy; 

While  he  that  watch'd  her  sadden,  was  the  more 

Suspicious  that  her  nature  had  a  taint. 

At  last,  it  chanced  on  a  summer  morn 
(They  sleeping  each  by  other)  the  new  sun 
Beat  through  the  blindless  casement  of  the  room, 
And  heated  the  strong  warrior  in  his  dreams; 
Who,  moving,  cast  the  coverlet  aside, 
And  bared  the  knotted  column  of  his  throat, 
The  massive  square  of  his  heroic  breast, 
And  arms  on  which  the  standing  muscle  sloped, 
As  slopes  a  wild  brook  o'er  a  little  stone, 
Running  too  vehemently  to  break  upon  it. 
And  Enid  woke  and  sat  beside  the  couch, 


ENID.  583 


Admiring  him,  and  thought  within  herself, 
Was  ever  man  so  grandly  made  as  he? 
Then,  like  a  shadow,  past  the  people's  talk 
And  accusation  of  uxoriousness 
Across  her  mind,  and  bowing  over  him, 
Low  to  her  own  heart  piteousl y,  she  said : 

"O  noble  breast  and  all-puissant  arms, 
Am  I  the  cause,  I  the  poor  cause  that  men 
Reproach  you,  saying  all  your  force  is  gone? 
I  am  the  cause  because  I  dare  not  speak 
Ami  tell  him  what  I  think  and  what  they  say. 
And  yet  I  hate  that  he  should  linger  here; 
I  cannot  love  my  lord  and  not  his  name. 
Far  liever  had  I  gird  his  harness  on  him, 
And  ride  with  him  to  battle  and  stand  by, 
And  watch  his  mightful  hand  striking  great  blows 
At  caitiffs  and  at  wrongers  of  the  world. 
Far  better  were  I  laid  in  the  dark  earth, 
Not  hearing  any  more  his  noble  voice, 
Not  to  be  folded  more  in  these  dear  arms, 
And  darkeuM  from  the  high  light  in  his  eyes, 
Than  that  my  lord  through  me  should  suffer  sha.i .< 
Am  I  so  bold,  and  could  I  so  stand  by, 
And  see  my  dear  lord  wounded  in  the  strife, 
Or  may  be  pierced  to  death  before  mine  eyes, 
And  yet  not  dare  to  tell  him  what  I  think, 
And  how  men  slur  him,  saying  all  his  force 
Is  melted  into  mere  effeminacy? 
O  me,  I  fear  that  I  am  no  true  wife." 

Half  inwardly,  half  audibly  she  spoke, 
And  the  strong  passion  in  her  made  her  weep 
True  tears  upon  his  broad  and  naked  breast, 
And  these  awoke  him,  and  by  great  mischance 
He  heard  but  fragments  of  her  later  words, 
And  that  she  fear'd  she  was  not  a  true  wife. 
And  then  he  thought,  "  In  spite  of  all  my  care, 
For  all  my  pains,  poor  man,  for  all  my  pains, 
She  is  not  faithful  to  me,  ami  1  see  her 
Weeping  for  some  gay  knight  in  Arthur's  hall." 
Then  tho'  he  loved  and  reverenced  her  too  much 
To  dream  she  could  be  of  foul  act, 
Right  thro'  his  manful  breast  darted  the  pang 


584  BNID 


That  makes  a  man  in  the  sweet  face  of  her 
Whom  he  loves  most,  lonely  and  miserable. 
At  this  he  hurl'd  his  huge  limbs  out  of  bed, 
And  shook  his  drowsy  squire  awake  and  cried, 
"  My  charger  and  her  palfrey,"  then  to  her, 
"  I  will  ride  forth  into  the  wilderness ; 
For  tho'  it  seems  my  spurs  are  yet  to  win, 
I  have  not  fall'n  so  low  as  some  would  wish. 
And  you,  put  on  your  worst  and  meanest  dress 
And  ride  with  me."     And  Enid  ask'd,  amazed, 
«  If  Enid  errs,  let  Enid  learn  her  fault." 
But  he,  "  I  charge  you,  ask  not,  but  obey." 
Then  she  bethought  her  of  a  faded  silk, 
A  faded  mantle  and  a  faded  veil, 
And  moving  toward  a  cedarn  cabinet, 
Wherein  she  kept  them  folded  reverently 
With  sprigs  of  summer  laid  between  the  folds, 
She  took  them,  and  array'd  herself  therein, 
Remembering  when  first  he  came  on  her 
Drest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved  her  in  it, 
And  all  her  foolish  fears  about  the  dress, 
And  all  his  journey  to  her,  as  himself 
Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the  court. 

For  Arthur  on  the  Whitsuntide  before 
Held  court  at  old  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 
There  on  a  day,  he  sitting  high  in  hall, 
Before  him  came  a  forester  of  Dean, 
Wet  from  the  woods,  with  notice  of  a  hart 
Taller  than  all  his  fellows,  milky-white, 
First  seen  that  day :  these  things  he  told  the  king. 
Then  the  good  king  gave  order  to  let  blow 
His  horns  for  hunting  on  the  morrow  morn. 
And  when  the  Queen  petition'd  for  his  leave 
To  see  the  hunt,  allow'd  it  easily. 
So  with  the  morning  all  the  court  were  gone. 
But  Guinevere  lay  late  into  the  morn, 
Lost  in  sweet  dreams,  and  dreaming  of  her  love 
For  Lancelot,  and  forgetful  of  the  hunt; 
But  rose  at  last,  a  single  maiden  with  her, 
Took  horse,  and  forded  Usk,  and  gain'd  the  wood; 
There,  on  a  little  knoll  beside  it,  stay'd 
Waiting  to  hear  the  hounds;  but  heard  instead 
A  sudden  sound  of  hoofs,  for  Prince  Geraint, 


ENID.  585 

Late  also,  wearing  neither  hunting  dress 

Nor  weapon,  save  a  golden-hilted  brand, 

Came  quickly  flashing  thro'  the  shallow  ford 

Behind  them,  and  so  gallop'd  up  the  knoll. 

A  purple  scarf,  at  either  end  whereof 

There  swung  an  apple  of  the  purest  gold, 

Sway'd  round  about  him,  as  he  gallop'd  up 

To  join  them,  glancing  like  a  dragon-fly 

In  summer  suit  and  silks  of  holiday. 

Low  bow'd  the  tributary  Prince,  and  she, 

Sweetly  and  stately,  and  with  all  grace 

Of  womanhood  and  queenhood,  answer' d  him: 

"  Late,  late,  Sir  Prince,"  she  said,  "  later  than  we  ! " 

u  Yea,  noble  Queen,"  he  answer'd,  "  and  so  late 

That  I  but  come  like  you  to  see  the  hunt, 

Not  join  it."     "Therefore  wait  with  me,"  she  said; 

"For  on  this  little  knoll,  if  anywhere, 

There  is  good  chance  that  we  shall  hear  the  hounds; 

Here  often  they  break  covert  at  our  feet." 

And  while  they  listen'd  for  the  distant  hunt, 
And  chiefly  for  the  baying  of  Cavall, 
King  Arthur's  hound  of  deepest  mouth,  there  rode 
Full  slowly  by  a  knight,  lady,  and  dwarf; 
Whereof  the  dwarf  laggM  latest,  and  the  knight 
Had  visor  up,  and  show'd  a  youthful  face, 
Imperious,  and  of  haughtiest  lineaments. 
And  Guinevere,  not  mindful  of  his  face 
In  the  king's  hall,  desired  his  name,  and  sent 
Her  maiden  to  demand  it  of  the  dwarf; 
Who  being  vicious,  old,  and  irritable, 
And  doubling  all  his  master's  vice  of  pride, 
Made  answer  sharply  that  she  should  not  know. 
"  Then  will  I  ask  it  of  himself,"  she  said. 
"  Nay,  by  my  faith,  thou  shalt  not,"  cried  the  dwarf: 
"  Thou  art  not  worthy  ev'n  to  speak  of  him ; " 
And  when  she  put  her  horse  toward  the  knight, 
Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she  return'd 
Indignant  to  the  Queen;  at  which  Geraint 
Exclaiming,  "  Surely  I  will  learn  the  name," 
Made  sharply  to  the  dwarf,  and  ask'd  it  of  him, 
Who  answered  as  before;  and  when  the  Prince 
Had  put  his  horse  in  motion  toward  the  knight, 
Struck  at  him  with  his  whip,  and  cut  his  cheek. 


586  ENID. 


The  Prince's  blood  spirted  upon  the  scarf, 

Dyeing  it;  and  his  quick,  instinctive  hand 

Caught  at  the  hilt,  as  to  abolish  him : 

But  he,  from  his  exceeding  manfulness 

And  pure  nobility  of  temperament, 

Wroth  to  be  wroth  at  such  a  worm,  refrainM 

From  ev'n  a  word,  and  so  returning,  said: 


"  I  will  avenge  this  insult,  noble  Queen, 
Done  in  your  maiden's  person  to  yourself: 
And  I  will  track  this  vermin  to  their  earths: 
For  tho'  I  ride  unarm'd,  I  do  not  doubt 
To  find,  at  some  place  I  shall  come  at,  arms 
On  loan,  or  else  for  pledge;  and,  being  found, 
Then  will  I  fight  him,  and  will  break  his  pride, 
And  on  the  third  day  will  again  be  here 
So  that  I  be  not  fall'n  in  fight.     Farewell." 

"Farewell,  fair  Prince,"  answer'd  the  stately  Queer. 
"  Be  prosperous  in  this  journey,  as  in  all ; 
And  may  you  light  on  all  things  that  you  love, 
And  live  to  wed  with  her  whom  first  you  love: 
But  ere  you  wed  with  any,  bring  your  bride, 
And  I,  were  she  the  daughter  of  a  king, 
Yea,  tho'  she  were  a  beggar  from  the  hedge, 
Will  clothe  her  for  her  bridals  like  the  sun." 

And  Prince  Geraint,  now  thinking  that  he  heant 
The  noble  hart  at  bay,  now  the  far  horn 
A  little  vext  at  losing  of  the  hunt, 
A  little  at  the  vile  occasion,  rode, 
By  tips  and  downs,  thro'  many  a  grassy  glade 
And  valley,  with  fixt  eye,  following  the  three. 
At  last  they  issued  from  the  world  of  wood, 
And  climb'd  upon  a  fair  and  even  ridge, 
And  show'd  themselves  against  the  sky,  and  sank 
And  thither  came  Geraint,  and  underneath 
Beheld  the  long  street  of  a  little  town 
In  a  long  valley,  on  one  side  of  which, 
White  from  the  mason's  hand,  a  fortress  rose: 
And  on  one  side  a  castle  in  decay, 
Beyond  a  bridge  that  spann'd  a  dry  ravine: 
And  out  of  town  and  valley  came  a  noise 


ENID. 


587 


As  of  a  broad  brook  o'er  a  shingly  bed 
Brawling,  or  like  a  clamor  of  the  rooks 
At  distance,  ere  they  settle  for  the  night 

And  onward  to  the  fortress  rode  the  three, 
And  enter'd,  and  were  lost  behind  the  walls. 
44  So,"  thought  Geraint,  "  I  have  track'd  him  to  his  earth.' 
And  down  the  lon£  street,  riding  wearily, 
Found  every  hostel  full,  and  every  where 


1! 

Was  hammer  laid  to  hoof,  and  the  hot  hiss 

And  bustling  whistle  of  the  youth  who  scour'd 

His  master's  armor;  and  of  such  a  one 

He  Etsk'd,  "  What  means  the  tumult  in  the  town?" 

Who  told  him,  scouring  still,  "  The  sparrow-hawk!" 

Then  riding  close  behind  an  ancient  churl, 

Who  smitten  by  the  dusty  sloping  beam, 


->88  BNIJX 


Went  sweating  underneath  a  sack  of  corn, 

Ask'd  yet  once  more  what  meant  the  hubbub  here? 

Who  answered  gruffly,  "  Ugh!  the  sparrow-hawk." 

Then,  riding  further  past  an  armorer's, 

Who,  with  back  turn'd,  and  bow'd  above  his  work, 

Sat  riveting  a  helmet  on  his  knee, 

He  put  the  selfsame  query,  but  the  man 

Not  turning  round,  nor  looking  at  him,  said: 

*  Friend,  he  that  labors  for  the  sparrow-hawk 

Has  little  time  for  idle  questioners." 

Whereat  Geraint  flash'd  into  sudden  spleen : 

M  A  thousand  pips  eat  up  your  sparrow-hawk! 

Tits,  wrens,  and  all  wing'd  nothings  peck  him  dead! 

Ye  think  the  rustic  cackle  of  your  bourg 

The  murmur  of  the  world!     What  is  it  to  me? 

O  wretched  set  of  sparrows,  one  and  all, 

Who  pipe  of  nothing  but  of  sparrow-hawks! 

Speak,  if  you  be  not  like  the  rest,  hawk-mad, 

Where  can  I  get  me  harborage  for  the  night? 

And  arms,  arms,  arms  to  fight  my  enemy?     Speak! ' 

At  this  the  armorer  turning  all  amazed 

And  seeing  one  so  gay  in  purple  silks, 

Came  forward  with  the  helmet  yet  in  hand 

And  answer'd,  "Pardon  me,  O  stranger  knight; 

We  hold  a  tourney  here  to-morrow  morn, 

And  there  is  scantly  time  for  half  the  work. 

Arms?  truth!  I  know  not:  all  are  wanted  here, 

Harborage?  truth,  good  truth,  I  know  not,  save, 

It  may  be,  at  Earl  Yniol's,  o'er  the  bridge 

Yonder."     He  spoke  and  fell  to  work  again. 

Then  rode  Geraint,  a  little  spleenful  yet, 
Across  the  bridge  that  spann'd  the  dry  ravine. 
There  musing  sat  the  hoary-headed  Earl, 
(His  dress  a  suit  of  fray'd  magnificence, 
Once  fit  for  feasts  of  ceremony)  and  said : 
"  Whither,  fair  son?"  to  whom  Geraint  replied, 
"  O  friend,  I  seek  a  harborage  for  the  night." 
Then  Yniol,  "Enter  therefore  and  partake 
The  slender  entertainment  of  a  house    . 
Once  rich,  now  poor,  but  ever  open-door'd." 
"  Thanks,  venerable  friend,"  replied  Geraint : 
"  So  that  you  do  not  serve  me  sparrow-hawks 
For  supper,  I  will  enter,  I  will  eat 


ENID.  589 


With  all  the  passion  of  a  twelve  hours'  fast." 
Then  sigh'd  and  smiled  the  hoary-headed  Earl, 
And  answer'd,  "Graver  cause  than  yours  is  mine 
To  curse  this  hedgerow  thief,  the  sparrow-hawk: 
But  in,  go  in;  for,  save  yourself  desire  it, 
We  will  not  touch  upon  him  ev'n  in  jest." 

Then  rode  Geraint  into  the  castle  court, 
His  charger  trampling  many  a  prickly  star 
Of  sprouted  thistle  on  the  broken  stones. 
He  look'd  and  saw  that  all  was  ruinous. 
Here  stood  a  shatter'd  archway  plumed  with  fern; 
And  here  had  fall'n  a  great  part  of  a  tower, 
Whole,  like  a  crag  that  tumbles  from  the  cliff, 
And  like  a  crag  was  gay  with  wilding  flowers: 
And  high  above  a  piece  of  turret  stair, 
Worn  by  the  feet  that  now  were  silent,  wound 
Bare  to  the  sun,  and  monstrous  ivy-stems 
Claspt  the  gray  walls  with  hairy-fibred  arms, 
And  suck'd  the  joining  of  the  stones,  and  look'd 
A  knot,  beneath,  of  snakes,  aloft,  a  grove. 

Ana  while  he  waited  in  the  castle  court, 
The  voice  of  Enid,  Yniol's  daughter,  rang 
Clear  thro'  the  open  casement  of  the  Hall, 
Singing:  and  as  the  sweet  voice  of  a  bird, 
Heard  by  the  lander  in  a  lonely  isle, 
Moves  him  to  think  what  kind  of  bird  it  is 
That  sings  so  delicately  clear,  and  make 
Conjecture  of  the  plumage  and  the  form; 
So  the  sweet  voice  of  Enid  moved  Geraint; 
And  made  him  like  a  man  abroad  at  morn 
When  first  the  liquid  note  beloved  of  men 
Comes  flying  over  many  a  windy  wave 
To  Britain,  and  in  April  suddenly 
Breaks  from  a  coppice  gemm'd  with  green  and  red, 
And  he  suspends  his  converse  with  a  friend, 
Or  it  may  be  the  labor  of  his  hands, 
To  think  or  say,  "  there  is  the  nightingale; " 
So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  thought  and  said, 
"  Here,  by  God's  grace,  is  the  one  voice  for  me." 

It  chanced  the  song  that  Enid  sang  was  one 
Of  Fortune  and  her  wheel,  and  Enid  sang: 


590 


ENID, 


"  Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  and  lower  the  proud ; 
Turn  thy  wild  wheel  thro'  sunshine,  storm,  and  cloud; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate. 

"  Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  with  smile  or  frown  ,♦ 
With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or  down ; 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are  great. 

"  Smile  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  many  lands : 
Frown  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  our  own  hands ; 
For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 

"  Turn,  turn  thy  wheel  above  the  staring  crowd ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in  the  cloud ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate." 

"  Hark,  by  the  bird's  song  you  may  learn  the  nest,' 
Said  Yniol;  "Enter  quickly."     Entering  then, 
Right  o'er  a  mount  of  newly-fallen  stones. 
The  dusty-rafter'd  many-cobweb'd  Hall, 
He  found  an  ancient  dame  in  dim  brocade , 
And  near  her,  like  a  blossom  vermeil-white, 


That  lightly  breaks  a  faded  flower-sheath, 
Moved  the  fair  Enid,  all  in  faded  silk, 
He*  daughter.     In  a  moment  thought  Geraint, 
u  Here  by  God's  rood  is  the  one  maid  for  me." 


enid.  59: 


But  none  spake  word  except  the  hoary  Earl : 
u  Enid,  the  good  knight's  horse  stands  in  the  court 
Take  him  to  stall,  and  give  him  corn,  and  then 
Go  to  the  town  and  buy  us  flesh  and  wine: 
And  we  will  make  us  merry  as  we  may. 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  arc  gn 

He  spake:  the  Prince,  as  Enid  past  him,  fain 
To  follow,  strode  a  stride,  but  Yniol  caught 
IIi>  purple  scarf,  and  held,  and  said  u  Forbear! 
Rest  !  the  good  house,  tho'  ruin'd,  0  i.iv  Son, 
Endures  not  that  her  guest  should  serve  himself." 
And  reverencing  the  custom  of  the  house 
Geraint,  from  utter  courtesy,  forebore. 
So  Enid  took  his  charger  to  the  stall; 
And  after  went  her  way  across  the  bridge, 
And  reach'd  the  town,  and  while  the  Prince  and  Eail 
Yet  spoke  together,  came  again  with  one, 
A  youth,  that  following  with  a  costrel  bore 
The  means  of  goodly  welcome,  flesh  and  wine. 
And  Enid  brought  sweet  cakes  to  make  them  cheer, 
And  in  her  veil  enfolded,  manchet  bread. 
And  then,  because  their  hall  must  also  serve 
For  kitchen,  boil'd  the  flesh,  and  spread  the  board, 
And  stood  behind,  and  waited  on  the  three. 
And  seeing  her  so  sweet  and  serviceable, 
Geraint  had  longing  in  him  evermore 
To  stoop  and  kiss  the  tender  little  thumb, 
That  crost  the  trencher  as  she  laid  it  down : 
But  after  all  had  eaten,  then  Geraint, 
For  now  the  wine  made  summer  in  his  veins, 
Let  his  eye  rove  in  following,  or  rest 
On  Enid  at  her  lowly  handmaid-work, 
Now  here,  now  there,  about  the  dusky  hall: 
Then  suddenly  addrest  the  hoary  Earl: 

"Fair  Host  and  Earl,  I  pray  your  courtesy; 
This  sparrow-hawk,  what  is  he,  tell  me  of  him. 
His  name?  but  no,  good  faith,  I  will  not  have  it: 
For  if  he  be  the  knight  whom  late  I  saw 
Ride  into  that  new  fortress  by  your  town, 
White  from  the  mason's  hand,  then  have  I  sworn 
From  his  own  lips  to  have  it — I  am  Geraint 
Of  Devon — for  this  morning  when  the  Queen 


592  RtflD. 


Sent  her  own  maiden  to  demand  the  name, 
His  dwarf,  a  vicious  under-shapen  thing, 
Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she  return'd 
Indignant  to  the  Queen;  and  then  I  swore 
That  I  would  track  this  caitiff  to  his  hold, 
And  fight  and  break  his  pride,  and  have  it  of  him 
And  all  unarm'd  I  rode,  and  thought  to  find 
Arms  in  your  town,  where  all  the  men  are  mad; 
They  take  the  rustic  murmur  of  their  bourg 
For  the  great  wave  that  echoes  round  the  world ; 
They  would  not  hear  me  speak :  but  if  you  know 
Where  I  can  light  on  arms,  or  if  yourself 
Should  have  them,  tell  me,  seeing  I  have  sworn 
That  I  will  break  his  pride  and  learn  his  name, 
Avenging  this  great  insult  done  the  Queen." 

Then  cried  Earl  Yniol :  "Art  thou  he  indeed, 
Geraint,  a  name  far-sounded  among  men 
For  noble  deeds?  and  truly  I,  when  first 
I  saw  you  moving  by  me  on  the  bridge, 
Felt  you  were  somewhat,  yea  and  by  your  state 
And  presence  might  have  guess'd  you  one  of  those 
That  eat  in  Arthur's  hall  at  Camelot. 
Nor  speak  I  now  from  foolish  flattery; 
For  this  dear  child  hath  often  heard  me  praise 
Your  feats  of  arms,  and  often  when  I  paused 
Hath  ask'd  again,  and  ever  loved  to  hear; 
So  grateful  is  the  noise  of  noble  deeds 
To  noble  hearts  who  see  but  acts  of  wrong 

0  never  yet  had  woman  such  a  pair 

Of  suitors  as  this  maiden;  first  Limours, 

A  creature  wholly  given  to  brawls  and  wine, 

Drunk  even  when  he  woo'd;  and  be  he  dead 

1  know  not,  but  he  passed  to  the  wild  land. 
The  second  was  your  foe,  the  sparrow-hawk, 
My  curse,  my  nephew, — I  will  not  let  his  name 
Slip  from  my  lips  if  I  can  help  it, — he, 

When  I  that  knew  him  fierce  and  turbulent 

Refused  her  to  him,  then  his  pride  awoke; 

And  since  the  proud  man  often  is  the  mean, 

He  sowed  a  slander  in  the  common  ear, 

Affirming  that  his  father  left  him  gold, 

And  in  my  charge,  which  was  not  render'd  to  him; 

Bribed  with  large  promises  the  men  who  served 


ENID.  593 

About  my  person,  the  more  easily 

Because  my  means  were  somewhat  broken  into 

Thro'  open  doors  and  hospitality; 

Raised  my  own  town  against  me  in  the  night 

Before  my  Enid's  birthday,  sack'd  my  house; 

From  mine  own  earldom  foully  ousted  me; 

Built  that  new  fort  to  overawe  my  friends, 

For  truly  there  are  those  who  love  me  yet; 

And  keeps  me  in  this  ruinous  castle  here, 

Where  doubtless  he  would  put  me  soon  to  death, 

But  that  his  pride  too  much  despises  me: 

Ami  I  myself  sometimes  despise  myself: 

For  I  have  let  men  be,  and  have  their  way; 

And  much  too  gentle,  have  not  used  my  power. 

Nor  know  I  whether  I  be  very  base 

Or  very  manful,  whether  very  wise 

Or  very  foolish;  only  this  I  know, 

That  whatsoever  evil  happen  to  me, 

I  seem  to  suffer  nothing  heart  or  limb, 

But  can  endure  it  all  most  patiently." 

"Well  said,  true  heart,"  replied  Geraint,  "  but  arms . 
That  if,  as  I  suppose,  your  nephew  fights 
In  next  day's  tourney  I  may  break  his  pride." 

And  Yniol  answered:  "Arms,  indeed, but  old 
And  rusty,  old  and  rusty,  Prince  Geraint, 
Are  mine,  and  therefore  at  your  asking,  yours, 
But  in  this  tournament  can  no  man  tilt, 
Except  the  lady  he  loves  best  be  there. 
Two  forks  are  fixt  into  the  meadow  ground, 
And  over  these  is  laid  a  silver  wand, 
And  over  that  is  placed  the  sparrow-hawk, 
The  prize  of  beauty  for  the  fairest  there. 
And  this,  what  knight  soever  be  in  field 
Lays  claim  to  for  the  lady  at  his  side, 
And  tilts  with  my  good  nephew  thereupon, 
Who  being  apt  at  arms  and  big  of  bone 
Has  ever  won  it  for  the  lady  with  him, 
And  toppling  over  all  antagonism 
Has  earn'd  himself  the  name  of  sparrow-hawk. 
But  you,  that  have  no  lady,  cannot  fight." 


594  ENTD. 


To  whom  Geraint  with  eyes  all  bright  replied, 
Leaning  a  little  toward  him,  "Your  leave! 
Let  me  lay  lance  in  rest,  O  noble  host, 
For  this  dear  child,  because  I  never  saw, 
Tho'  having  seen  all  beauties  of  our  time, 
Nor  can  see  elsewhere,  anything  so  fair. 
And  if  I  fall  her  name  will  yet  remain 
Untarnish'd  as  before;  but  if  I  live, 
So  aid  me  Heaven  when  at  mine  uttermost, 
As  I  will  make  her  truly  my  true  wife." 

Then,  howsoever  patient,  Yniol's  heart 
Danced  in  his  bosom,  seeing  better  days, 
And  looking  round  he  saw  not  Enid  there 
(Who  hearing  her  own  name  had  slipt  away), 
But  that  old  dame,  to  whom  full  tenderly 
And  fondling  all  her  hand  in  his  he  said, 
"  Mother,  a  maiden  is  a  tender  thing, 
And  best  by  her  that  bore  her  understood. 
Go  thou  to  rest,  but  ere  thou  go  to  rest 
Tell  her,  and  prove  her  heart  toward  the  Prince.' 

So  spake  the  kindly-hearted  Earl,  and  she 
With  frequent  smile  and  nod  departing  found 
Half  disarray'd  as  to  her  rest,  the  girl ; 
Whom  first  she  kiss'd  on  either  cheek,  and  then 
On  either  shining  shoulder  laid  a  hand, 
And  kept  her  off  and  gazed  upon  her  face, 
And  told  her  all  their  converse  in  the  hall, 
Proving  her  heart;  but  never  light  and  shade 
Coursed  one  another  more  on  open  ground 
Beneath  a  troubled  heaven,  then  red  and  pale- 
Across  the  face  of  Enid  hearing  her; 
Whilst  slowly  falling  as  a  scale  that  falls, 
When  weight  is  added  only  grain  by  grain, 
Sank  her  sweet  head  upon  her  gentle  breast; 
Nor  did  she  lift  an  eye  nor  speak  a  word, 
Rapt  in  the  fear  and  in  the  wonder  of  it; 
So  moving  without  answer  to  her  rest 
She  found  no  rest,  and  ever  fail'd  to  draw 
The  quiet  night  into  her  blood,  but  lay 
Contemplating  her  own  unworthiness; 
And  when  the  pale  and  bloodless  east  began 
To  quicken  to  the  sun,  arose,  and  raised 


ENID.  595 

Her  mother  too,  and  hand  in  hand  they  moved 
Down  to  the  meadow  where  the  jousts  were  held, 
And  waited  there  for  Yniol  and  Geraint. 

And  thither  came  the  twain,  and  when  Geraint 
Beheld  her  first  in  field,  awaiting  him, 
He  felt,  were  she  the  prize  of  bodily  force, 
1 1  imself  beyond  the  rest  pushing  could  move 
The  chair  of  Idris.     Yniol's  rusted  arms 
Wete  on  his  princely  person,  but  thro'  these 
Prmcelike  his  bearing  shone;  and  errant  knights 
And  ladies  came,  and  by  and  by  the  town 
Flow'd  in,  and  settling  circled  all  the  lists. 
And  there  they  fixt  the  forks  into  the  ground, 
And  over  these  they  placed  a  silver  wand, 
And  over  that  a  golden  sparrow-hawk. 
Then  Yniol's  nephew,  after  trumpet  blown, 
Spake  to  the  lady  with  him  and  proclaim'd 
"Advance  and  take  as  fairest  of  the  fair, 
For  I  these  two  years  past  have  won  it  for  thee, 
The  prize  of  beauty ."     Loudly  spake  the  Prince, 
"Forbear:  there  is  a  worthier,"  and  the  knight 
With  some  surprise  and  thrice  as  much  disdain 
Turn'd,  and  beheld  the  four,  and  all  his  face 
Glow'd  like  the  heart  of  a  great  fire  at  Yule, 
So  burnt  he  was  with  passion,  crying  out, 
"Do  battle  for  it  then,"  no  more;  and  thrice 
They  clash'd  together,  and  thrice  they  brake  their  spears. 
Then  each,  dishorsed  and  drawing,  lash'd  at  each 
So  often,  and  with  such  blows,  that  all  the  crowd 
Wonder'd,  and  now  and  then  from  distant  walls 
There  came  a  clapping  as  of  phantom  hands. 
So  twice  they  fought,  and  twice  they  breathed,  and  still 
The  dew  of  their  great  labor,  and  the  blood 
Of  their  strong  bodies,  flowing,  drain'd  their  force. 
But  either's  force  was  match'd  till  Yniol's  cry, 
"Remember  that  great  insult  done  the  Queen," 
Increased  Geraint's,  who  heaved  his  blade  aloft, 
And  crack'd  the  helmet  thro',  and  bit  the  bone, 
And  fell'd  him,  and  set  foot  upon  his  breast, 
And  said,  "Thy  name?"  To  whom  the  fallen  man 
Made  answer,  groaning,  "Edyrn,  son  of  Nudd! 
Ashamed  am  I  that  I  should  tell  it  thee. 
My  pride  is  broken :  men  have  seen  my  fall." 


596  ENID. 


"Then,  Edyrn,  son  of  Nudd,"  replied  Geraint, 
"These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or  else  thou  diest. 
First,  thou  thyself,  thy  lady  and  thy  dwarf, 
Shalt  ride  to  Arthur's  court,  and  being  there, 
Crave  pardon  for  that  insult  done  the  Queen, 
And  shalt  abide  her  judgment  on  it;  next, 
Thou  shalt  give  back  their  earldom  to  thy  kin. 
These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or  thou  shalt  die." 
And  Edyrn  answer'd,  "These  things  will  I  do, 
For  I  have  never  yet  been  overthrown, 
And  thou  hast  overthrown  me,  and  my  pride 
Is  broken  down,  for  Enid  sees  my  fall!" 
And  rising  up,  he  rode  to  Arthur's  court, 
And  there  the  Queen  forgave  him  easily. 
And  being  young,  he  changed  himself,  and  grew 
To  hate  the  sin  that  seem'd  so  like  his  own, 
Of  Modred,  Arthur's  nephew,  and  fell  at  last 
In  the  great  battle  fighting  for  the  king. 

But  when  the  third  day  from  the  hunting-morn 
Made  a  low  splendor  in  the  world,  and  wings 
Moved  in  her  ivy,  Enid,  for  she  lay 
With  her  fair  head  in  the  dim -yellow  light, 
Among  the  dancing  shadows  of  the  birds, 
Woke  and  bethought  her  of  her  promise  given 
No  later  than  last  eve  to  Prince  Geraint — 
So  bent  he  seem'd  on  going  the  third  day, 
He  would  not  leave  her,  till  her  promise  given — 
To  ride  with  him  this  morning  to  the  court, 
And  there  be  made  known  to  the  stately  Queen, 
And  there  be  wedded  with  all  ceremony. 
At  this  she  cast  her  eyes  upon  her  dress, 
And  thought  it  never  yet  had  look'd  so  mean. 
For  as  a  leaf  in  mid-November  is 
To  what  it  was  in  mid-October,  seem'd 
The  dress  that  now  she  look'd  on  to  the  dress 
She  look'd  on  ere  the  coming  of  Geraint. 
And  still  she  look'd,  and  still  the  terror  grew 
Of  that  strange  bright  and  dreadful  thing,  a  court, 
All  staring  at  her  in  her  faded  silk : 
And  softly  to  her  own  sweet  heart  she  said : 

"This  noble  Prince  who  won  our.  earldom  back, 
So  splendid  in  his  acts  and  his  attire, 


ENID.  597 


Sweet  heaven!  how  much  I  shall  discredit  him! 
Would  he  could  tarry  with  us  here  awhile! 
But  being  so  beholden  to  the  Prince 
It  were  but  little  grace  in  any  of  us, 
Bent  as  he  seem'd  on  going  this  third  day, 
To  seek  a  second  favor  at  his  hands. 
Yet  if  he  could  but  tarry  a  day  or  two, 
Myself  would  work  eye  dim,  and  finger  lame. 
Far  liefer  than  so  much  discredit  him." 

And  Enid  fell  in  longing  for  a  dress 
All  branched  and  flower'd  with  gold,  a  costly  gift 
Of  her  good  mother,  given  her  on  the  night 
Before  her  birthday,  three  sad  years  ago, 
That  night  of  fire,  when  Edyrn  sack'd  their  house, 
And  scatter'd  all  they  had  to  all  the  winds: 
For  while  the  mother  show'd  it,  and  the  two 
Were  turning  and  admiring  it,  the  work 
To  both  appeared  so  costly,  rose  a  cry 
That  Edyrn's  men  were  on  them,  and  they  fled 
With  little  save  the  jewels  they  had  on, 
Which  being  sold  and  sold  had  bought  them  bread: 
And  Edyrn's  men  had  caught  them  in  their  flight, 
And  placed  them  in  this  ruin;  and  she  wish'd 
The  Prince  had  found  her  in  her  ancient  home; 
Then  let  her  fancy  flit  across  the  past, 
And  roam  the  goodly  places  that  she  knew; 
And  last  bethought  her  how  she  used  to  watch, 
Near  that  old  home,  a  pool  of  golden  carp; 
And  one  was  patch'd  and  blurr'd  and  lustreless 
Among  his  burnish'd  brethren  of  the  pool; 
And  half  asleep  she  made  comparison 
Of  that  and  these  to  her  own  faded  self 
And  the  gay  court,  and  fell  asleep  again ; 
And  dreamt  herself  was  such  a  faded  form 
Among  her  burnish'd  sisters  of  the  pool; 
But  this  was  in  the  garden  of  the  king; 
And  tho'  she  lay  dark  in  the  pool,  she  knew 
That  all  was  bright;  that  all  about  were  birds 
Of  sunny  plume  in  gilded  trellis-work; 
That  all  the  turf  was  rich  in  plots  that  look'd 
Each  like  a  garnet  or  a  turkis  in  it; 
And  lords  and  ladies  of  the  high  court  went 
In  silver  tissue  talking  things  of  state; 


&98  ENID. 


And  children  of  the  king  in  cloth  of  gold 

Glanced  at  the  doors  or  gambol'd  down  the  walks; 

And  while  she  thought  a  they  will  not  see  me,"  came 

A  stately  queen  whose  name  was  Guinevere, 

And  all  the  children  in  their  cloth  of  gold 

Ran  to  her,  crying,  "  If  we  have  fish  at  all 

Let  them  be  gold:  and  charge  the  gardeners  now 

To  pick  the  faded  creature  from  the  pool, 

And  cast  it  on  the  mixen  that  it  die." 

And  there  withal  one  came  and  seized  on  her, 

And  Enid  started  waking,  with  her  heart 

All  overshadow'd  by  the  foolish  dream, 

And  lo!  it  was  her  mother  grasping  her 

To  get  her  well  awake;  and  in  her  hand 

A  suit  of  bright  apparel,  which  she  laid 

Flat  on  the  couch,  and  spoke  exultingly: 

"  See  here,  my  child,  how  fresh  the  colors  look, 
How  fast  they  hold,  like  colors  of  a  shell 
That  keeps  the  wear  and  polish  of  the  wave. 
Why  not?  it  never  yet  was  worn,  I  trow; 
Look  on  it,  child,  and  tell  me  if  you  know  it/1 

And  Enid  look'd,  but  all  confused  at  first, 
Could  scarce  divide  it  from  her  foolish  dream, 
Then  suddenly  she  knew  it  and  rejoiced, 
And  answer'd,  "  Yea,  I  know  it;  your  good  gift, 
So  sadly  lost  on  that  unhappy  night; 
Your  own  good  gift!  "     "  Yea,  surely,"  said  the  dame, 
"And  gladly  given  again  this  happy  morn. 
For  when  the  jousts  were  ended  yesterday, 
Went  Yniol  thro'  the  town,  and  everywhere 
He  found  the  sack  and  plunder  of  our  house 
All  scatter'd  thro'  the  houses  of  the  town : 
And  gave  command  that  all  which  once  was  ours, 
Should  now  be  ours  again;  and  yester-eve, 
While  you  were  talking  sweetly  with  your  Prince, 
Came  one  with  this  and  laid  it  in  my  hand, 
For  love  or  fear,  or  seeking  favor  of  us, 
Because  we  have  our  earldom  back  again. 
And  yester-eve  I  would  not  tell  you  of  it, 
But  kept  it  for  a  sweet  surprise  at  morn. 
Yea,  truly  is  it  not  a  sweet  surprise? 
For  I  myself  unwillingly  have  worn 


ENID.  59U 


My  faded  suit,  as  you,  my  child,  have  yours, 
And  howsoever  patient,  Yniol  his. 
Ah,  dear,  he  took  me  from  a  goodly  house, 
With  store  of  rich  apparel,  sumptuous  fare, 
^nd  page,  and  maid,  and  squire,  and  seneschal, 
A.nd  pastime,  both  of  hawk  and  hound,  and  all 
That  appertains  to  noble  maintenance. 
Yea,  and  he  brought  me  to  a  goodly  hou6e; 
But  since  our  fortune  slipt  from  sun  to  shade, 
aid  all  thro'  that  young  traitor,  cruel  need 
fonstrain'd  us,  but  a  better  time  has  come; 
So  clothe  yourself  in  this,  that  better  fits 
Our  mended  fortunes  and  a  Prince's  bride: 
For  tho'  you  won  the  prize  of  fairest  fair, 
And  tho'  I  heard  him  call  you  fairest  fair, 
Let  never  maiden  think,  however  fair, 
She  is  not  fairer  in  new  clothes  than  old. 
And  should  some  great  court-lady  say,  the  Prince 
Hath  pick'd  a  ragged-robin  from  the  hedge, 
And  like  a  madman  brought  her  to  the  court, 
Then  were  you  shamed,  and  worse,  might  shame  the 
To  whom  we  are  beholden;  but  I  know, 
When  my  dear  child  is  set  forth  at  her  best, 
That  neither  court  nor  country,  tho'  they  sought 
Thro'  all  the  provinces  like  those  of  old 
That  lighted  on  Queen  Esther,  has  her  match." 

Here  ceased  the  kindly  mother  out  of  breath; 
And  Enid  listen'd  brightening  as  she  lay; 
Then,  as  the  white  and  glittering  star  of  morn 
Parts  from  a  bank  of  snow,  and  by  and  by 
Slips  into  golden  cloud,  the  maiden  rose, 
And  left  her  maiden  couch,  and  robed  herself, 
Help'd  by  the  mother's  careful  hand  and  eye, 
Without  a  mirror,  in  the  gorgeous  gown: 
Who,  after,  turn'd  her  daughter  round,  and  said, 
She  never  yet  had  seen  her  half  so  fair; 
And  call'd  her  like  that  maiden  in  the  tale, 
Whom  Gwydion  made  by  glamor  out  of  flowers, 
And  sweeter  than  the  bride  of  Cassivelaun, 
Flur,  for  whose  love  the  Roman  Caesar  first 
Invaded  Britain,  "  but  we  beat  him  back, 
As  this  great  Prince  invaded  us,  and  we, 
Not  beat  him  back,  but  welcomed  him  with  joy. 


600  ENID. 


And  I  can  scarcely  ride  with  you  to  court, 
For  old  am  I,  and  rough  the  ways  and  wild; 
But  Yniol  goes,  and  I  full  oft  shall  dream 
I  see  my  princess  as  I  see  her  now, 
Cloth' d  with  my  gift,  and  gay  among  the  gay." 

But  whilst  the  women  thus  rejoiced,  Geraint 
Woke  where  he  slept  in  the  high  hall,  and  call'd 
For  Enid,  and  when  Yniol  made  report 
Of  that  good  mother  making  Enid  gay 
In  such  apparel  as  might  well  beseem 
His  princess,  or  indeed  the  stately  queen, 
He  answer'd,     "  Earl,  entreat  her  by  my  love, 
Albeit  I  give  no  reason  but  my  wish, 
That  she  ride  with  me  in  her  faded  silk." 
Yniol  with  that  hard  message  went;  it  fell, 
Like  flaws  in  summer  laying  lusty  corn: 
For  Enid,  all  abash'd,  she  knew  not  why, 
Dared  not  to  glance  at  her  good  mother's  face, 
But  silently,  in  all  obedience, 
Her  mother  silent  too,  nor  helping  her, 
Laid  from  her  limbs  the  costly-broider'd  gift, 
And  robed  them  in  her  ancient  suit  again, 
And  so  descended.     Never  man  rejoiced 
More  than  Geraint  to  greet  her  thus  attired: 
And  glancing  all  at  once  as  keenly  at  her, 
As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver's  toil, 
Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eyelid  fall, 
But  rested  with  her  sweet  face  satisfied; 
Then  seeing  cloud  upon  the  mother's  brow, 
Her  by  both  hands  he  caught,  and  sweetly  said : 

"  O  my  new  mother,  be  not  wroth  or  grieved 
At  your  new  son,  for  my  petition  to  her. 
When  late  I  left  Caerleon,  our  great  Queen, 
In  words  whose  echo  lasts,  they  were  so  sweet, 
Made  promise  that  whatever  bride  I  brought, 
Herself  would  clothe  her  like  the  sun  in  Heaven. 
Thereafter,  when  I  reach'd  this  ruin'd  hold, 
Beholding  one  so  bright  in  dark  estate, 
I  vow'd  that  could  I  gain  her,  our  kind  Queen, 
No  hand  but  hers,  should  make  your  Enid  burst 
Sunlike  from  cloud — and  likewise  thought  perhaps, 
That  service  done  so  graciously  would  bind 


ENID.  601 

The  two  together;  for  I  wish  the  two 

To  love  each  other:  how  should  Enid  find 

A  nobler  friend?     Another  thought  I  had; 

I  came  among  you  here  so  suddenly, 

That  tho'  her  gentle  presence  at  the  lists 

Might  well  have  served  for  proof  that  I  was  loved, 

I  doubted  whether  filial  tenderness, 

Or  easy  nature,  did  not  let  itself 

Be  moulded  by  your  wishes  for  her  weal ; 

Or  whether  some  false  sense  in  her  own  self 

Of  my  contrasting  brightness,  overbore 

Her  fancy  dwelling  in  this  dusky  hall ; 

And  such  a  sense  might  make  her  long  for  court 

And  all  its  dangerous  glories:  and  I  thought, 

That  could  I  someway  prove  such  force  in  her 

LinkM  with  such  love  for  me,  that  at  a  word 

(No  reason  given  her)  she  could  cast  aside 

A  splendor  dear  to  women,  new  to  her 

And  therefore  dearer;  or  if  not  so  new, 

Yet  therefore  tenfold  dearer  by  the  power 

Of  intermitted  custom:  then  I  felt 

That  I  could  rest,  a  rock  in  ebbs  and  flows, 

Fixt  on  her  faith.     Now,  therefore,  I  do  rest, 

A  prophet  certain  of  my  prophecy, 

That  never  shadow  of  mistrust  can  cross 

Between  us.     Grant  me  pardon  for  my  thoughts: 

And  for  my  strange  petition  I  will  make 

Amends  hereafter  by  some  gaudy-day, 

When  your  fair  child  shall  wear  your  costly  gift 

Beside  your  own  warm  hearth,  with,  on  her  knees, 

Who  knows?  another  gift  of  the  high  God. 

Which,  maybe,  shall  have  learn'd  to  lisp  you  thanks." 

He  spoke,  the  mother  smiled,  but  half  in  tears. 
Then  brought  a  mantle  down  and  wrapt  her  in  it, 
And  claspt  and  kiss'd  her,  and  they  rode  away. 

Now  thrice  that  morning  Guinevere  had  climbM 
The  giant  tower,  from  whose  high  crest,  they  say, 
Men  saw  the  goodly  hills  of  Somerset, 
And  white  sails  flying  on  the  yellow  sea; 
But  not  to  goodly  hill  or  yellow  sea 
Look'd  the  fair  Queen,  but  up  the  vale  of  Usk, 
By  the  flat  meadow,  till  she  saw  them  come 


602  ENID. 


And  then  descending  met  them  at  the  gates, 
Embraced  her  with  all  welcome  as  a  friend, 
And  did  her  honor  as  the  Prince's  bride, 
And  clothed  her  for  her  bridals  like  the  sun; 
And  all  that  week  was  old  Caerleon  gay, 
For  by  the  hands  of  Dubric,  the  high  saint, 
They  twain  were  wedded  with  all  ceremony. 

And  this  was  on  the  last  year's  Whitsuntide. 
But  Enid  ever  kept  the  faded  silk, 
Remembering  how  first  he  came  on  her, 
Drest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved  her  in  it, 
And  all  the  foolish  fears  about  the  dress, 
And  all  his  journey  toward  her,  as  himself 
Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the  court. 

And  now  this  morning  when  he  said  to  her, 
"  Put  on  your  worst  and  meanest  dress,"  she  found 
And  took  it,  and  array'd  herself  therein. 


II. 


O  purblind  race  of  miserable  men, 
How  many  among  us  at  this  very  hour 
Do  forge  a  life-long  trouble  for  ourselves, 
By  taking  true  for  false,  or  false  for  true; 
Here,  thro'  the  feeble  twilight  of  this  world 
Groping,  how  many,  until  we  pass  and  reach 
That  other,  where  we  see  as  we  are  seen! 

So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  issuing  forth 
That  morning,  when  they  both  had  got  to  horse> 
Perhaps  because  he  loved  her  passionately, 
And  felt  that  tempest  brooding  round  his  heart, 
Which,  if  he  spoke  at  all,  would  break  perforce 
Upon  a  head  so  dear  in  thunder,  said : 
"  Not  at  my  side !     I  charge  you  ride  before, 
Ever  a  good  way  on  before;  and  this 
I  charge  you,  on  your  duty  as  a  wife, 
Whatever  happens,  not  to  speak  to  me, 
No,  not  a  word!"  and  Enid  was  aghast: 
And  forth  they  rode,  but  scarce  three  paces  on, 
When  crying  out,  "  Effeminate  as  I  am, 


ENID.  008 


I  will  not  fight  my  way  with  gilded  arms, 

All  shall  be  iron;"  he  loosed  a  mighty  purse, 

Hung  at  his  belt,  and  hurl'd  it  toward  the  squire. 

So  the  last  sight  that  Enid  had  of  home 

Was  all  the  marble  threshold  flashing,  strown 

With  gold  and  scatter'd  coinage,  and  the  squire 

Chafing  his  shoulder;  then  he  cried  again, 

"To  the  wilds!"  and  Enid  leading  down  the  tracks 

Thro'  which  he  bade  her  lead  him  on,  they  past 

The  marches,  and  by  bandit-haunted  holds, 

Gray  swamps  and  pools,  waste  places  of  the  hern, 

And  wildernesses,  perilous  paths,  they  rode : 

Round  was  their  pace  at  first,  but  slacken'd  soon: 

A  stranger  meeting  them  had  surely  thought, 

They  rode  so  slowly  and  they  looked  so  pale, 

That  each  had  suffer' d  some  exceeding  wrong. 

For  he  was  ever  saying  to  himself, 

"OI  that  wasted  time  to  tend  upon  her, 

To  compass  her  with  sweet  observances, 

To  dress  her  beautifully  and  keep  her  true  " — 

And  there  he  broke  the  sentence  in  his  heart 

Abruptly,  as  a  man  upon  his  tongue 

May  break  it,  when  his  passion  masters  him. 

And  she  was  ever  praying  the  sweet  heavens 

To  save  her  dear  lord  whole  from  any  wound. 

And  ever  in  her  mind  she  cast  about 

For  that  unnoticed  failing  in  herself, 

Which  made  him  look  so  cloudy  and  so  cold; 

Till  the  great  plover's  human  whistle  amazed 

Her  heart,  and  glancing  round  the  waste  she  fear'd 

In  every  wavering  brake  an  ambuscade. 

Then  thought  again  "  If  there  be  such  in  me, 

I  might  amend  it  by  the  grace  of  heaven, 

If  he  would  only  speak  and  tell  me  of  it." 

But  when  the  fourth  part  of  the  day  was  gone, 
Then  Enid  was  aware  of  three  tall  knights 
On  horseback,  wholly  arm'd,  behind  a  rock 
In  shadow,  waiting  for  them,  caitiffs  all ; 
And  heard  one  crying  to  his  fellow,  "  Look, 
Here  comes  a  laggard  hanging  down  his  head, 
Who  seems  no  bolder  than  a  beaten  hound ; 
Come,  we  will  slay  him  and  will  have  his  horse 
And  armor,  and  his  damsel  shall  be  ours." 


604  ENID. 


Then  Enid  ponder'd  in  her  heart,  and  said: 
"  I  will  go  back  a  little  to  my  lord, 
And  I  will  tell  him  all  their  caitiff  talk; 
For,  be  he  wroth  even  to  slaying  me, 
Far  liever  by  his  dear  hand  had  I  die, 
Than  that  my  lord  should  suffer  loss  or  shame.** 

Then  she  went  back  some  paces  of  return, 
Met  his  full  frown  timidly  firm,  and  said : 
**  My  lord,  I  saw  three  bandits  by  the  rock 
Waiting  to  fall  on  you,  and  heard  them  boast 
That  they  would  slay  you,  and  possess  your  horse 
And  armor,  and  your  damsel  should  be  theirs." 

He  made  a  wrathful  answer.     "  Did  I  wish 
Your  warning  or  your  silence?  one  command 
I  laid  upon  you,  not  to  speak  to  me, 
And  thus  you  keep  it !     Well  then,  look — for  now, 
Whether  you  wish  me  victory  or  defeat, 
Long  for  my  life,  or  hunger  for  my  death, 
Yourself  shall  see  my  vigor  is  not  lost." 

Then  Enid  waited  pale  and  sorrowful, 
And  down  upon  him  bare  the  bandit  three. 
And  at  the  midmost  charging,  Prince  Geraint 
Drave  the  long  spear  a  cubit  thro'  his  breast 
And  out  beyond;  and  then  against  his  brace 
Of  comrades,  each  or.  whom  had  broken  on  him 
A  lance  that  splinter'd  like  an  icicle, 
Swung  from  his  brand  a  windy  buffet  out 
Once,  twice,  to  right,  to  left,  and  stunn'd  the  twain 
Or  slew  them,  and  dismounting  like  a  man 
That  skins  the  wild  beast  after  slaying  him, 
Stript  from  the  three  dead  wolves  of  woman  born 
The  three  gay  suits  of  armor  which  they  wore, 
And  let  the  bodies  lie,  but  bound  the  suits 
Of  armor  on  their  horses,  each  on  each, 
And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the  three 
Together,  and  said  to  her,  "drive  them  on 
Before  you ; "  and  she  drove  them  thro'  the  waste. 

He  followed  nearer:  ruth  began  to  work 
Against  his  anger  in  him,  while  he  watch'd 


MN/D.  606 

The  being  he  loved  best  in  all  the  world, 

With  difficulty  in  mild  obedience 

Driving  them  on:  he  fain  had  spoken  to  her, 

And  loosed  in  words  of  sudden  fire  the  wrath 

And  smoulder'd  wrong  that  burnt  him  all  within; 

But  evermore  it  seem'd  an  easier  thing 

At  once  without  remorse  to  strike  her  dead, 

Than  to  cry    "  Halt,"   and  to  her  own  bright  face 

Accuse  her  of  the  least  immodesty: 

And  thus  tongue-tied,  it  made  him  wroth  the  more 

That  she  could  speak  whom  his  own  ear  had  heard 

Call  herself  false:  and  suffering  thus  he  made 

Minutes  an  age:  but  in  scarce  longer  time 

Than  at  Caerleon  the  fall-tided  Usk, 

Before  he  turn  to  full  seaward  again, 

Pauses,  did  Enid,  keeping  watch,  behold 

In  the  first  shallow  shade  of  a  deep  wood, 

Before  a  gloom  of  stubborn-shafted  oaks, 

Three  other  horsemen  waiting,  wholly  arm'd, 

Whereof  one  seem'd  far  larger  than  her  lord. 

And  shook  her  pulses,  crying,  "  Look,  a  prize! 

Three  horses  and  three  goodly  suits  of  arms, 

And  all  in  charge  of  whom?  a  girl:  set  on." 

"Nay,"  said  the  second,  "yonder  comes  a  knight." 

The  third,  "A  craven!  how  he  hangs  his  head." 

The  giant  answer'd  merrily,  "Yea,  but  one? 

Wait  here,  and  when  he  passes  fall  upon  him." 

And  Enid  ponder'd  in  her  heart  and  said, 
"  I  will  abide  the  coming  of  my  lord, 
And  I  will  tell  him  all  their  villany. 
My  lord  is  weary  with  the  fight  before, 
And  they  will  fall  upon  him  unawares. 
I  needs  must  disobey  him  for  his  good; 
How  should  I  dare  obey  him  to  his  harm? 
Needs  must  I  speak,  and  tho'  he  kill  me  for  it, 
I  save  a  life  dearer  to  me  than  mine." 

And  she  abode  his  coming,  and  said  to  him 
With  timid  firmness,  "  Have  I  leave  to  speak?" 
He  said,  "  You  take  it,  speaking,"  and  she  spoke, 
"There  lurk  three  villains  yonder  in  the  wood, 
And  each  of  them  is  wholly  arm'd,  and  one 


606  ENID. 


Is  larger-limb'd  than  you  are,  and  they  say 
That  they  will  fall  upon  you  while  you  pass," 

To  which  he  flung  a  wrathful  answer  back:  . 
"And  if  there  were  an  hundred  in  the  wood, 
And  every  man  were  larger-limb'd  than  I, 
And  all  at  once  should  sally  out  upon  me, 
I  swear  it  would  not  ruffle  me  so  much 
As  you  that  not  obey  me.     Stand  aside, 
And  if  I  fall,  cleave  to  the  better  man." 

And  Enid  stood  aside  to  wait  the  event, 
Nor  dare  to  watch  the  combat,  only  breathe 
Short  fits  of  prayer,  at  every  stroke  a  breath. 
And  he,  she  dreaded  most,  bare  down  upon  him, 
Aim'd  at  the  helm,  his  lance  err'd;  but  Geraint's, 
A  little  in  the  late  encounter  strain'd, 
Struck  thro'  the  bulky  bandit's  corselet  home, 
And  then  brake  short,  and  down  his  enemy  roil'd 
And  there  lay  still:  as  he  that  tells  the  tale, 
Saw  once  a  great  piece  of  a  promontory, 
That  had  a  sapling  growing  on  it,  slip 
From  the  long  shore-cliff's  windy  walls  to  the  beach. 
And  there  lie  still,  and  yet  the  sapling  grew : 
So  lay  the  man  transfixt.     His  craven  pair 
Of  comrades,  making  slowlier  at  the  Prince, 
When  now  they  saw  their  bulwark  fallen,  stood: 
On  whom  the  victor,  to  confound  them  more, 
Spurr'd  with  his  terrible  war-cry;  for  as  one, 
That  listens  near  a  torrent  mountain-brook, 
All  thro'  the  crash  of  the  near  cataract  hears 
The  drumming  thunder  of  the  huger  fall 
At  distance,  were  the  soldiers  wont  to  hear 
His  voice  in  battle,  and  be  kindled  by  it, 
And  foemen  scared,  like  that  false  pair  who  turn'd 
Flying,  but,  overtaken,  died  the  death 
Themselves  had  wrought  on  many  an  innocent. 

Thereon  Geraint,  dismounting,  pick'd  the  lance 
That  pleased  him  best,  and  drew  from  those  dead  woive* 
Their  three  gay  suits  of  armor,  each  from  each, 
And  bound  them  on  their  horses,  each  on  each, 
And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the  three 


ENID,  607 

Together,  and  said  to  her,  "  Drive  them  on 
Before  you,"  and  she  drove  them  thro'  the  wood. 

He  followed  nearer  still ;  the  pain  she  had 
To  keep  them  in  the  wild  ways  of  the  wood, 
Two  sets  of  three  laden  with  jingling  arms, 
Together,  served  a  little  to  disedge 
The  sharpness  of  that  pain  about  her  heart; 
And  they  themselves,  like  creatures  gently  born 
But  into  bad  hands  fall'n,  and  now  so  long 
By  bandits  groom'd,  prickM  their  light  ears,  and  felt 
Her  low  firm  voice  and  tender  government. 

So  thro'  the  green  gloom  of  the  wood  they  past, 
And  issuing  under  open  heavens  beheld 
A  little  town  with  towers,  upon  a  rOck, 
And  close  beneath,  a  meadow  gemlike  chased 
In  the  brown  wild,  and  mowers  mowing  in  it: 
And  down  a  rocky  pathway  from  the  place 
There  came  a  fair-hair' d  youth,  that  in  his  hand 
Bare  victual  for  the  mowers:  and  Geraint 
Had  ruth  again  on  Enid  looking  pale: 
Then,  moving  downward  to  the  meadow  ground, 
He,  when  the  fair-hair'd  youth  came  by  him,  said 
"Friend,  let  her  eat;  the  damsel  is  so  faint." 
"  Yea,  willingly,"  replied  the  youth;  "and  you, 
My  lord,  eat  also,  tho'  the  fare  is  coarse, 
And  only  meet  for  mowers;"  then  set  down 
His  basket,  and  dismounting  on  the  sward 
They  let  the  horses  graze,  and  ate  themselves. 
And  Enid  took  a  little  delicately, 
Less  having  stomach  for  it  than  desire 
To  close  with  her  lord's  pleasure;  but  Geraint 
Ate  all  the  mowers'  victual  unawares, 
And  when  he  found  all  empty,  was  amazed: 
And  "Boy,"  said  he,  "I  have  eaten  all,  but  take 
A  horse  and  arms  for  guerdon ;  choose  the  best." 
He,  reddening  in  extremity  of  delight, 
"  My  lord,  you  overpay  me  fifty  fold." 
"  You  will  be  all  the  wealthier,"  cried  the  Prince, 
"  I  take  it  as  free  gift,  then,"  said  the  boy, 
"  Not  guerdon ;  for  myself  can  easily, 
While  your  good  damsel  rests,  return,  and  fetch 
Fresh  victual  for  these  mowers  of  our  Earl ; 


ENID. 


For  these  are  his,  and  all  the  field  is  his, 

And  I  myself  am  his;  and  I  will  tell  him 

How  great  a  man  you  are;  he  loves  to  know 

When  men  of  mark  are  in  his  territory: 

And  he  will  have  you  to  his  palace  here, 

And  serve  you  costlier  than  with  mowers'  fare." 

Then  said  Geraint,  "  I  wish  no  better  fare : 
I  never  ate  with  angrier  appetite 
Than  when  1  left  your  mowers  dinnerless. 
And  into  no  Earl's  palace  will  I  go. 
I  know,  God  knows,  too  much  of  palaces! 
And  if  he  want  me,  let  him  come  to  me. 
But  hire  us  some  fair  chamber  for  the  night, 
And  stalling  for  the  horses,  and  return 
With  victual  for  these  men,  and  let  uz  Isnow.1' 

"  Yea,  my  kind  lord,"  said  the  glad  youth,  and  went 
Held  his  head  high,  and  thought  himself  a  knight, 
And  up  the  rocky  pathway  disappear'd, 
Leading  the  horse,  and  they  were  left  alone. 

But  when  the  Prince  had  brought  his  errant  eyes 
Home  from  the  rock,  sideways  he  let  them  glance 
At  Enid,  where  she  droopt:  his  own  false  doom, 
That  shadow  of  mistrust  should  never  cross 
Betwixt  them,  came  upon  him,  and  he  sigh'd; 
Then  with  another  humorous  ruth  remark'd 
The  lusty  mowers  laboring  dinnerless, 
And  watch'd  the  sun  blaze  on  the  turning  scythe,. 
And  after  nodded  sleepily  in  the  heat. 
But  she,  remembering  her  old  ruin'd  hall, 
And  all  the  windy  clamor  of  the  daws 
About  her  hollow  turret,  pluck'd  the  grass 
There  growing  longest  by  the  meadow's  edge, 
And  into  many  a  listless  annulet, 
Now  over,  now  beneath  her  marriage-ring, 
Wove  and  unwove  it,  till  the  boy  return'd 
And  told  them  of  a  chamber,  and  they  went; 
Where,  after  saying  to  her,  "  If  you  will, 
Call  for  the  woman  of  the  house,"  to  which 
She  answer'd,  "Thanks,  my  lord;"  the  two  remain'd 
Apart  by  all  the  chambers  width,  and  mute 
As  creatures  voiceless  thro'  the  fault  of  birth, 


ENID. 


009 


Or  two  wild  men  supporters  of  a  shield, 
Painted,  who  stare  at  open  space,  nor  glance 
The  one  at  other,  parted  by  the  shield. 

On  a  sudden,  many  a  voice  along  the  street, 
And  heel  against  the  pavement  echoing,  burst 
Their  drowse,  and  either  started  while  the  door, 
Push'd  from  without,  drave  backward  to  the  wall, 


And  midmost  of  a  rout  of  roisterers, 

Femininely  fair  and  dissolutely  pale, 

Her  suitor  in  old  years  before  Geraint, 

EnterM,  the  wild  lord  of  the  place,  Limours. 

He  moving  up  with  pliant  courtliness, 

Greeted  Geraint  full  face,  but  stealthily, 

In  the  mid-warmth  of  welcome  and  graspt  hand, 


8.10  ENID. 


Found  Enid  with  the  corner  of  his  eye, 
And  knew  her  sitting  sad  and  solitary. 
Then  cried  Geraint  for  wine  and  goodly  cheer 
To  feed  the  sudden  guest,  and  sumptuously 
According  to  his  fashion,  bade  the  host 
Call  in  what  men  soever  were  his  friends, 
And  feast  with  these  in  honor  of  their  earl; 
"And  care  not  for  the  cost ;  the  cost  is  mine." 

And  wine  and  food  were  brought,  and  Earl  Limour? 
Drank  till  he  jested  with  all  ease,  and  told 
Free  tales,  and  took  the  word  and  play'd  upon  it, 
And  made  it  of  two  colors;  for  his  talk, 
When  wine  and  free  companions  kindled  him, 
Was  wont  to  glance  and  sparkle  like  a  gem 
Of  fifty  facets;  thus  he  moved  the  Prince 
To  laughter  and  his  comrades  to  applause. 
Then,  when  the  Prince  was  merry,  ask'd  Limours, 
"  Your  leave,  my  lord,  to  cross  the  room,  and  speak 
To  your  good  damsel  there  who  sits  apart 
And  seems  so  lonely?"     "  My  free  leave,"  he  said 
"  Get  her  to  speak :  she  does  not  speak  to  me." 
Then  rose  Limours  and  looking  at  his  feet, ' 
Like  him  who  tries  the  bridge  he  fears  may  fail, 
Crost  and  came  near,  lifted  adoring  eyes, 
Bow'd  at  her  side  and  utter'd  whisperingly: 

"  Enid,  the  pilot  star  of  my  lone  life, 
Enid  my  early  and  my  only  love, 
Enid  the  loss  of  whom  has  turn'd  me  wild — 
What  chance  is  this?  how  is  it  I  see  you  here? 
You  are  in  my  power  at  last,  are  in  my  power. 
Yet  fear  me  not:  I  call  mine  own  self  wild, 
But  keep  a  touch  of  sweet  civility 
Here  in  the  heart  of  waste  and  wilderness. 
I  thought,  but  that  your  father  came  between, 
In  former  days  you  saw  me  favorably. 
And  if  it  were  so  do  not  keep  it  back : 
Make  me  a  little  happier:  let  me  know  it: 
Owe  you  me  nothing  for  a  life  half-lost? 
Yea,  yea,  the  whole  dear  debt  of  all  you  are. 
Ana,  Enid,  you  and  he,  I  see  it  with  joy — 
You  sit  apart,  you  do  not  speak  to  him, 
You  come  with  no  attendance,  page  or  maid, 


ENID.  611 


To  serve  you — does  he  love  you  as  of  old  ? 

For,  call  it  lovers'  quarrels,  yet  I  know 

Tho'  men  may  bicker  with  the  things  they  love, 

They  would  not  make  them  laughable  in  all  eyes, 

Not  while  they  loved  them:  and  your  wretched  dretw. 

A  wretched  insult  on  you,  dumbly  speaks 

Your  story,  that  this  man  loves  you  no  more. 

Your  beauty  is  no  beauty  to  him  now: 

A  common  chance — right  well  I  know  it — pall'd— 

For  I  know  men — nor  will  you  win  him  back, 

For  the  man's  love  once  gone  never  returns* 

But  here  is  one  who  loves  you  as  of  old ; 

With  more  exceeding  passion  than  of  old : 

Good,  speak  the  word:  my  followers  ring  him  rounu. 

He  sits  unarm'd;  I  hold  a  finger  up; 

They  understand :  no ;  I  do  not  mean  blood ; 

Nor  need  you  look  so  scared  at  what  I  s;i y : 

My  malice  is  no  deeper  than  a  moat, 

No  stronger  than  a  wall:  there  is  the  keep: 

He  shall  not  cross  us  more;  speak  but  the  word: 

Or  speak  it  not;  but  then  by  Him  that  made  me 

The  one  true  lover  which  you  ever  had, 

I  will  make  use  of  all  the  power  I  have. 

O  pardon  me!  the  madness  of  that  hour, 

When  first  I  parted  from  you,  moves  me  yet." 

At  this  the  tender  sound  of  his  own  voice 
And  sweet  self-pity,  or  the  fancy  of  it, 
Made  his  eye  moist;  but  Enid  fear'd  his  eyes, 
Moist  as  they  were,  wine-heated  from  the  feast ; 
And  answered  with  such  craft  as  women  use, 
Guilty  or  guiltless,  to  stave  off  a  chance 
That  breaks  upon  them  perilously,  and  said : 

"  Earl,  if  you  love  me  as  in  former  year  , 
And  do  not  practice  on  me,  come  with  morn, 
And  snatch  me  from  him  as  by  violence; 
Leave  me  to-night:  I  am  weary  to  the  death." 

Low  at  leave-taking,  with  his  brandishM  plume 
Brushing  his  instep,  bow'd  the  all-amorous  Earl, 
And  the  stout  Prince  bade  him  a  loud  good-night 
He  moving  homeward  babbled  to  his  men, 


612  ENID. 


How  Enid  never  loved  a  man  but  him, 
Nor  cared  a  broken  egg-shell  for  her  lord. 

But  Enid  left  alone  with  Prince  Geraint, 
Debating  his  command  of  silence  given, 
And  that  she  now  perforce  must  violate  it, 
Held  commune  with  herself,  and  while  she  held 
He  fell  asleep,  and  Enid  had  no  heart 
To  wake  him,  but  hung  o'er  him,  wholly  pleased 
To  find  him  yet  unwounded  after  fight, 
And  hear  him  breathing  low  and  equally. 
Anon  she  rose,  and  stepping  lightly,  heap'd 
The  pieces  of  his  armor  in  one  place, 
All  to  be  there  against  a  sudden  need; 
Then  dozed  awhile  herself,  but  over-toil'd 
By  that  day's  grief  and  travel,  evermore 
Seem'd  catching  at  a  rootless  thorn,  and  then 
Went  slipping  down  horrible  precipices, 
And  strongly  striking  out  her  limbs  awoke; 
Then  thought  she  heard  the  wild  Earl  at  the  door, 
With  all  his  rout  of  random  followers, 
Sound  on  a  dreadful  trumpet,  summoning  her; 
Which  was  the  red  cock  shouting  to  the  light, 
As  the  gray  dawn  stole  o'er  the  dewy  world, 
And  glimmer'd  on  his  armor  in  the  room. 
And  once  again  she  rose  to  look  at  it, . 
But  touch'd  it  unawares:  jangling,  the  casque 
Fell,  and  he  started  up  and  stared  at  her. 
Then  breaking  his  command  of  silence  given, 
She  told  him  all  that  Earl  Limours  had  said, 
Except  the  passage  that  he  loved  her  not; 
Nor  left  untold  the  craft  herself  had  used ; 
But  ended  with  apology  so  sweet, 
Low-spoken,  and  of  so  few  words,  and  seem'd 
So  justified  by  that  necessity, 
That  tho'  he  thought  "  was  it  for  him  she  wept 
In  Devon  ? "  he  but  gave  a  wrathful  groan, 
Saying  "  your  sweet  faces  make  good  fellows  fools 
And  traitors.     Call  the  host  and  bid  him  bring 
Charger  and  palfrey."     So  she  glided  out 
Among  the  heavy  breathings  of  the  house, 
And  like  a  household  Spirit  at  the  walls 
Beat,  till  she  woke  the  sleepers,  and  return'd: 
Then  tending  her  rough  lord,  tho'  all  unask'd, 


ENID.  61b 


In  silence,  did  him  service  as  a  squire; 

Till  issuing  arm'd  he  found  the  host  and  cried 

"Thy  reckoning,  friend?"  and  ere  he  learnt  it,  "  Take 

Five  horses  and  their  armors;"  and  the  host 

Suddenly  honest,  answer'd  in  amaze, 

"  My  lord,  I  scarce  have  spent  the  worth  of  one!" 

"  You  will  be  all  the  wealthier,"  said  the  Prince, 

And  then  to  Enid,  "Forward!  and  to-day 

I  charge  you,  Enid,  more  especially, 

What  thing  soever  you  may  hear  or  see, 

Or  fancy  (tho'  I  count  it  of  small  use 

To  charge  you)  that  you  speak  not  but  obey." 

And  Enid  answer'd,  "  Yea,  my  lord,  I  know 
Your  wish,  and  would  obey:  but  riding  first, 
I  hear  the  violent  threats  you  do  not  hear, 
I  see  the  danger  which  you  cannot  see; 
Then  not  to  give  you  warning,  that  seems  hard„ 
Almost  beyond  me:  yet  I  would  obey." 

"Yea,  so,"  said  he,  "do  it:  be  not  too  wise; 
Seeing  that  you  are  wedded  to  a  man, 
Not  quite  mismatcd  with  a  yawning  clown, 
But  one  with  arms  to  guard  his  head  and  yours, 
With  eyes  to  find  you  out  however  far, 
And  ears  to  hear  you  even  in  his  dreams." 

With  that  he  turned  and  looked  as  keenly  at  her 
As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver's  toil; 
And  that  within  her  which  a  wanton  fool, 
Or  hasty  judger,  would  have  called  her  guilt, 
Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eyelid  fall. 
And  Geraint  look'd  and  was  not  satisfied. 


Then  forward  by  a  way  which,  beaten  broad, 
Led  from  the  territory  of  false  Limours 
To  the  waste  earldom  of  another  earl, 
Doorm,  whom  his  shaking  vassals  callM  the  Bull, 
Went  Enid  with  her  sullen  follower  on. 
Once  she  look'd  back,  and  when  she  saw  him  ride 
More  near  by  many  a  rood  than  yestermorn, 
It  wellnigh  made  her  cheerful:  till  Geraint 
Waving  an  angry  hand  as  who  should  say 


514  ENID. 


"  You  watch  me,"  saddened  all  her  heart  again. 

But  while  the  sun  yet  beat  a  dewy  blade, 

The  sound  of  many  a  heavily-galloping  hoof 

Smote  on  her  ear,  and  turning  round  she  saw 

Dust,  and  the  points  of  lances  bicker  in  it. 

Then  not  to  disobey  her  lord's  behest, 

And  yet  to  give  him  warning,  for  he  rode 

As  if  he  heard  not,  moving  back  she  held 

Her  finger  up,  and  pointed  to  the  dust. 

At  which  the  warrior  in  his  obstinacy, 

Because  she  kept  the  letter  of  his  word 

Was  in  a  manner  pleased,  and  turning,  stood. 

And  in  the  moment  after,  wild  Limours, 

Borne  on  a  black  horse,  like  a  thunder-cloud 

Whose  skirts  are  loosen'd  by  the  breaking  storm, 

Half  ridden  off  with  by  the  thing  he  rode, 

And  all  in  passion  uttering  a  dry  shriek, 

Dash'd  on  Geraint,  who  closed  with  him  and  bore 

Down  by  the  length  of  lance  and  arm  beyond 

The  crupper,  and  so  left  him  stunn'd  or  dead, 

And  overthrew  the  next  that  follow'd  him, 

And  blindly  rush'd  on  all  the  rout  behind. 

But  at  the  flash  and  motion  of  the  man 

They  vanish'd  panic-stricken,  like  a  shoal 

Of  darting  fish,  that  on  a  summer  morn 

Adown  the  crystal  dikes  at  Camelot 

Come  slipping  o'er  their  shadows  on  the  sand, 

But  if  a  man  who  stands  upon  the  brink 

But  lift  a  shining  hand  against  the  sun, 

There  is  not  left  the  twinkle  of  a  fin 

Betwixt  the  cressy  islets  white  in  flower; 

So,  scared  but  at  the  motion  of  the  man, 

Fled  all  the  boon  companions  of  the  Earl, 

And  left  him  lying  in  the  public  way: 

So  vanish  friendships  only  made  in  wine. 

Then  like  a  stormy  sunlight  smiled  Geraint, 
Who  saw  the  chargers  of  the  two  that  fell 
Start  from  their  fallen  lords,  and  wildly  fly, 
Mixt  with  the  flyers.     "  Horse  and  man,"  he  said, 
"All  of  one  mind  and  all  right-honest  friends! 
Not  a  hoof  left;  and  I  methinks  till  now 
Was  honest — paid  with  horses  and  with  arms: 
I  cannot  steal  or  plunder,  no  nor  beg: 


ENIb.  015 


And  so  what  say  you,  shall  we  strip  him  there 
Your  lover?  has  your  palfrey  heart  enough 
To  bear  his  armor?  shall  we  fast  or  dine? 
No? — then  do  you,  being  right  honest,  pray 
That  we  may  meet  the  horsemen  of  Earl  Doorm, 
I  too  would  still  be  honest."     Thus  he  said; 
And  sadly  gazing  on  her  bridle-reins, 
And  answering  not  one  word,  she  led  the  way. 

But  as  a  man  to  whom  a  dreadful  loss 
Falls  in  a  far  land  and  he  knows  it  not, 
But  coming  back  he  learns  it,  and  the  loss 
So  pains  him  that  he  sickens  nigh  to  death; 
So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  being  prick'd 
In  combat  with  the  follower  of  Limours, 
Bled  underneath  his  armor  secretly, 
And  so  rode  on,  nor  told  his  gentle  wife 
What  ail'd  him,  hardly  knowing  it  himself, 
Till  his  eye  darkened  and  his  helmet  wagg'd; 
And  at  a  sudden  swerving  of  the  road, 
Tho'  happily  down  on  a  bank  of  gra-^, 
The  Prince,  without  a  word,  from  his  horse  felL 

And  Enid  heard  the  clashing  of  his  fall, 
Suddenly  came,  and  at  his  side  all  pale 
Dismounting,  loosed  the  fastenings  of  his  arms, 
Nor  let  her  true  hand  falter,  nor  blue  eye 
Moisten,  till  she  had  lighted  on  his  wound, 
And  tearing  off  her  veil  of  faded  silk 
Had  bared  her  forehead  to  the  blistering  sun, 
And  swathed  the  hurt  that  drain'd  her  dear  lordV  L  t 
Then  after  all  was  done  that  hand  could  do, 
She  rested,  and  her  desolation  came 
Upon  her,  and  she  wept  beside  the  way. 

And  many  past,  but  none  regarded  her, 
For  in  that  realm  of  lawless  turbulence, 
A  woman  weeping  for  her  murder' d  mate 
Was  cared  as  much  for  as  a  summer  shower: 
One  took  him  for  a  victim  of  Earl  Doorm, 
Nor  dared  to  waste  a  perilous  pity  on  him: 
Another  hurrying  past,  a  man  at  arms, 
Rode  on  a  mission  to  the  bandit  Earl; 


616  ENID. 


Half  whistling  and  half  singing  a  coarse  song, 
He  drove  the  dust  against  her  veilless  eyes; 
Another,  flying  from  the  wrath  of  Doorm 
Before  an  ever-fancied  arrow,  made 
The  long  way  smoke  beneath  him  in  his  fear; 
At  which  her  palfrey  whinnying  lifted  heel, 
And  scour'd  into  the  coppices  and  was  lost, 
While  the  great  charger  stood,  grieved  like  a  man. 

But  at  the  point  of  noon  the  huge  Earl  Doorm, 
Broad-faced  with  under-fringe  of  russet  beard, 
Bound  on  a  foray,  rolling  eyes  of  prey, 
Came  riding  with  a  hundred  lances  up; 
But  ere  he  came,  like  one  that  hails  a  ship, 
Cried  out  with  a  big  voice,  "What,  is  he  dead?" 
"  No,  no,  not  dead! "  she  answer'd  in  all  haste. 
"Would  some  of  your  kind  people  take  him  up, 
And  bear  him  hence  out  of  this  cruel  sun ; 
Most  sure  am  I,  quite  sure,  he  is  not  dead." 

Then  said  Earl  Doorm:  "  Well,  if  he  be  not  dead, 
Why  wail  you  for  him  thus?  you  seem  a  child. 
And  be  he  dead,  I  count  you  for  a  fooi ; 
Your  wailing  will  not  quicken  him :  dead  or  not, 
You  mar  a  comely  face  with  idiot  tears. 
Yet,  since  the  face  is  comely — some  of  you, 
Here,  take  him  up,  and  bear  him  to  our  hail: 
And  if  he  live,  we  will  have  him  of  our  band ; 
And  if  he  die,  why  earth  has  earth  enough 
To  hide  him.     See  ye  take  the  charger  too, 
A  noble  one." 

He  spake,  and  past  away, 
But  left  two  brawny  spearmen,  who  advanced, 
Each  growling  like  a  dog,  when  his  good  bone 
Seems  to  be  pluck'd  at  by  the  village  boys 
Who  love  to  vex  him  eating,  and  he  fears 
To  lose  his  bone,  and  lays  his  foot  upon  it, 
Gnawing  and  growling;  so  the  ruffians  growl'd, 
Fearing  to  lose,  and  all  for  a  dead  man, 
Their  chance  of  booty  from  the  morning's  raid; 
Yet  raised  and  laid  him  on  a  litter-bier, 
Such  as  they  brought  upon  their  forays  out 
For  those  that  might  be  wounded;  laid  him  on  it 
All  in  the  hollow  of  his  shield,  and  took 


ENID.  617 


And  bore  him  to  the  naked  hall  of  Doorm, 
(His  gentle  charger  following  him  unled) 
And  cast  him  and  the  bier  in  which  he  lay 
Down  on  an  oaken  settle  in  the  hall, 
And  then  departed,  hot  in  haste  to  join 
Their  luckier  mates,  but  growling  as  before, 
And  cursing  their  lost  time,  and  the  dead  man, 
And  their  own  Earl,  and  their  own  souls,  and  her. 
They  might  as  well  have  blest  her:  she  was  deaf 
To  blessing  or  to  cursing  save  from  one. 

So  for  long  hours  sat  Enid  by  her  lord, 
There  in  the  naked  hall,  propping  his  head, 
And  chafing  his  pale  hands,  and  calling  to  him. 
And  at  the  last  he  waken'd  from  his  swoon, 
And  found  his  own  dear  bride  propping  his  head, 
And  chafing  his  faint  hands,  and  calling  to  him ; 
And  left  the  warm  tears  falling  on  his  face; 
And  said  to  his  own  heart,  "  She  weeps  for  me;" 
And  yet  lay  still,  and  feign' d  himself  as  dead, 
That  he  might  prove  her  to  the  uttermost, 
And  say  to  his  own  heart,  "  She  weeps  for  me," 

But  in  the  falling  afternoon  return'd 
The  huge  Earl  Doorm  with  plunder  to  the  hall. 
His  lusty  spearmen  followed  him  with  noise: 
Each  hurling  down  a  heap  of  things  that  rang 
Against  the  pavement,  cast  his  lance  aside, 
And  dofifM  his  helm:  and  then  there  fluttered  in, 
Half-bold,  half-frighted,  with  dilated  eyes, 
A  tribe  of  women,  dressM  in  many  hues, 
And  mingled  with  the  spearmen :  and  Earl  Doorm 
Struck  with  a  knife's  haft  hard  against  the  board, 
And  call'd  for  flesh  and  wine  to  feed  his  spears. 
And  men  brought  in  whole  hogs  and  quarter  beeves, 
And  all  the  hall  was  dim  with  steam  of  flesh: 
And  none  spake  word,  but  all  sat  down  at  once, 
And  ate  with  tumult  in  the  naked  hall, 
Feeding  like  horses  when  you  hear  them  feed; 
Till  Enid  shrank  far  backjnto  herself, 
To  shun  the  wild  ways  of  the  lawless  tribe. 
But  when  Earl  Doorm  had  eaten  all  he  would, 
He  roll'd  his  eyes  about  the  hall,  and  found 
A  damsel  drooping  in  a  corner  of  it. 


616  ENID. 


Then  he  remember'd  her,  and  how  she  wept; 

And  out  of  her  there  came  a  power  upon  him: 

And  rising  on  the  sudden  he  said,  "  Eat! 

I  never  yet  beheld  a  thing  so  pale. 

God's  curse,  it  makes  me  mad  to  see  you  weep. 

Eat!  Look  yourself.     Good  luck  had  your  good  man, 

For  were  I  dead  who  is  it  would  weep  for  me? 

Sweet  lady,  never  since  I  first  drew  breath, 

Have  I  beheld  a  lily  like  yourself. 

And  so  there  lived  some  color  in  your  cheek, 

There  is  not  one  among  my  gentlewomen 

Were  fit  to  wear  your  slipper  for  a  glove. 

But  listen  to  me,  and  by  me  be  ruled, 

And  I  will  do  the  thing  I  have  not  done, 

For  you  shall  share  my  earldom  with  me,  girl, 

And  we  will  live  like  two  birds  in  one  nest, 

And  I  will  fetch  you  forage  from  all  fields, 

For  I  compel  all  creatures  to  my  will." 

He  spoke:  the  brawny  spearman  let  his  cheek 
Bulge  with  the  unswallow'd  piece,  and  turning,  stared; 
While  some,  whose  souls  the  old  serpent  long  had  draw* 
Down,  as  the  worm  draws  in  the  wither'd  leaf 
And  makes  it  earth,  hiss'd  each  at  other's  ear 
What  shall  not  be  recorded — women  they, 
Women,  or  what  had  been  those  gracious  things, 
But  now  desired  the  humbling  of  their  best, 
Yea,  would  have  helped  him  to  it;  and  all  at  once 
They  hated  her,  who  took  no  thought  of  them, 
But  answer'd  in  low  voice,  her  meek  head  yet 
Drooping,  "  I  pray  you  of  your  courtesy, 
He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be." 

She  spake  so  low  he  hardly  heard  her  speak, 
But  like  a  mighty  patron,  satisfied 
With  what  himself  had  done  so  graciously, 
Assumed  that  she  had  thanked  him,  adding,  "  Yea. 
Eat  and  be  glad,  for  I  account  you  mine." 

She  answer'd  meekly,  "  How  should  I  be  glad 
Henceforth  in  all  the  world  at  anything:, 
Until  my  lord  arise  and  look  upon  me?  " 


ENID.  619 

Here  the  huge  Earl  cried  out  upon  her  talk. 
As  all  but  empty  heart  and  weariness 
And  sickly  nothing;  suddenly  seized  on  her, 
And  bare  her  by  main  violence  to  the  board, 
And  thrust  the  dish  before  her,  crying,  "Eat." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Enid,  vext,  "  T  will  not  eat 
Till  yonder  man  upon  the  bier  arise, 

And  eat  with  tne."     "  Drink,  then,"   he  answered.     "Here!" 
(And  fillM  a  horn  with  wine  and  held  it  to  her,) 
"Lo!     I,  myself,  when  flush'd  with  fight,  or  hot, 
God's  curse,  with  anger, — often  I  myself, 
Before  I  well  have  drunken, scarce  can  eat: 
Drink  therefore,  and  the  wine  will  change  your  will." 

"  Not  so,"  she  cried,  "  by  Heaven,  I  will  not  drink, 
Till  my  dear  lord  arise  and  bid  me  do  it, 
And  drink  with  me;  and  if  he  rise  no  more, 
I  will  not  look  at  wine  until  I  die." 


At  this  he  turn'd  all  red  and  pae'd  his  hall, 
Now  gnawM  his  under,  now  his  upper  lip, 
And  coming  up  close  to  her,  said  at  last: 
"  Girl,  for  I  see  you  scorn  my  courtesies, 
Take  warning:  yonder  man  is  surely  dead; 
And  I  compel  all  creatures  to  my  will. 
Not  eat  nor  drink  ?     And  wherefore  wail  for  one, 
Who  put  your  beauty  to  this  flout  and  scorn 
By  dressing  it  in  rags?     Amazed  am  I, 
Beholding  how  you  butt  against  my  wish, 
That  I  forbear  you  thus:  cross  me  no  more. 
At  least  put  off  to  please  me  this  poor  gown, 
This  silken  rag,  this  beggar-woman's  weed: 
I  love  that  beauty  should  go  beautifully: 
For  see  you  not  my  gentlewomen  here, 
How  gay,  how  suited  to  the  house  of  one, 
Who  loves  that  beauty  should  go  beautifully! 
Rise  therefore;  robe  yourself  in  this:  obey." 

He  spoke,  and  one  among  his  gentlewomen 
Display'd  a  splendid  silk  of  foreign  loom, 
Where  like  a  Bhoaling  sea  the  lovely  blue 
Play'd  into  green,  and  thicker  down  the  front 


620  ENID. 


With  jewels  than  the  sward  with  drops  of  dew, 
When  all  night  long  a  cloud  clings  to  the  hill, 
And  with  the  dawn  ascending  lets  the  day 
Strike  where  it  clung:  so  thickly  shone  the  gems. 

But  Enid  answer'd,  harder  to  be  moved 
Than  hardest  tyrants  in  their  day  of  power, 
With  life-long  injuries  burning  unavenged, 
And  now  their  hour  has  come;  and  Enid  said: 

"  In  this  poor  gown  my  dear  lord  found  me  first. 
And  lov'd  me  serving  in  my  father's  hall : 
In  this  poor  gown  I  rode  with  him  to  court, 
And  there  the  Queen  array'd  me  like  the  sun: 
In  this  poor  gown  he  bade  me  clothe  myself, 
When  now  we  rode  upon  this  fatal  quest 
Of  honor,  where  no  honor  can  be  gain'd: 
And  this  poor  gown  I  will  not  cast  aside 
Until  himself  arise  a  living  man, 
And  bid  me  cast  it.     I  have  griefs  enough: 
Pray  you  be  gentle,  pray  you  let  me  be: 
I  never  loved,  can  never  love  but  him : 
Yea,  God,  I  pray  you  of  your  gentleness, 
He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be." 

Then  strode  the  brute  Earl  up  and  down  his  hail, 
And  took  his  russet  beard  between  his  teeth; 
Last,  coming  up  quite  close,  and  in  his  mood 
Crying,  "  I  count  it  of  no  more  avail, 
Dame,  to  be  gentle  than  ungentle  with  you; 
Take  my  salute,"  unknightly  with  flat  hand, 
However  lightly,  smote  her  on  the  cheek. 

Then  Enid,  in  her  utter  helplessness, 
And  since  she  thought,  "  he  had  not  dared  to  do  it 
Except  he  surely  knew  my  lord  was  dead," 
Sent  forth  a  sudden  sharp  and  bitter  cry, 
As  of  a  wild  thing  taken  in  the  trap, 
Which  sees  the  trapper  coming  thro'  the  wood. 

This  heard  Geraint,  and  grasping  at  his  sword, 
(It  lay  beside  him  in  the  hollow  shield,) 
Made  but  a  single  bound,  and  with  a  sweep  of  it 


ENID.  621 


Shore  thro'  the  swarthy  neck,  and  like  a  ball 
The  russet -bearded  head  roll'd  on  the  floor. 
So  died  Earl  Doorm  by  him  he  counted  dead. 
And  all  the  men  and  women  in  the  hall 
Rose  when  they  saw  the  dead  man  rise,  and  fled 
Yelling  as  from  a  spectre,  and  the  two 
Were  left  alone  together,  and  he  said: 

"Enid  I  have  used  you  worse  than  that  dead  man; 
Done  you  more  wrong :  we  both  have  undergone 
That  trouble  which  has  left  me  thrice  your  own: 
Henceforward  I  will  rather  die  than  doubt. 
And  here  I  lay  this  penance  on  myself, 
Not,  tho'  mine  own  ears  heard  you  yester-morn — 
You  thought  me  sleeping,  but  I  heard  you  say, 
I  heard  you  say,  that  you  were  no  true  wife: 
I  swear  I  will  not  ask  your  meaning  in  it: 
I  do  believe  yourself  against  yourself, 
And  will  henceforward  rather  die  than  doubt." 

And  Enid  could  not  say  one  tender  word, 
She  felt  so  blunt  and  stupid  at  the  heart: 
She  only  pray'd  him,  "  Fly,  they  will  return 
And  slay  you ;  fly,  your  charger  is  without, 
My  palfrey  lost."     "  Then,  Enid,  shall  you  ride 
Behind  me."     "  Yea,"  said  Enid,  "let  us  go." 
And  moving  out  they  found  the  stately  horse, 
Who  now  no  more  a  vassal  to  the  thief, 
But  free  to  stretch  his  limbs  in  lawful  fight, 
Neigh'd  with  all  gladness  as  they  came,  and  stoopM 
With  a  low  whinny  toward  the  pair:  and  he 
Kiss'd  the  white  star  upon  his  noble  front, 
Glad  also;  then  Geraint  upon  the  horse 
Mounted,  and  reach'd  a  hand,  and  on  his  foot 
She  set  her  own  and  climbM ;  he  turn'd  his  face 
And  kiss'd  her  climbing,  and  she  cast  her  arms 
About  him,  and  at  once  they  rode  away. 

And  never  yet,  since  high  in  Paradise 
O'er  the  four  rivers  the  first  roses  blew, 
Came  purer  pleasure  unto  mortal  kind, 
Than  lived  thro'  her  who  in  that  perilous  hour 
Put  hand  to  hand  beneath  her  husband's  heart, 


622  ENID. 


And  felt  him  hers  again ;  she  did  not  weep, 
But  o'er  her  meek  eyes  came  a  happy  mist 
Like  that  which  kept  the  heart  of  Eden  green 
Before  the  useful  trouble  of  the  rain: 
Yet  not  so  misty  were  her  meek  blue  eyes 
As  not  to  see  before  them  on  the  path, 
Right  in  the  gateway  of  the  bandit  hold, 
A  knight  of  Arthur's  court,  who  laid  his  lance 
In  rest,  and  made  as  if  to  fall  upon  him. 
Then,  fearing  for  his  hurt  and  loss  of  blood, 
She,  with  her  mind  all  full  of  what  had  chanced, 
Shriek'd  to  the  stranger,  "  Slay  not  a  dead  man !" 
"  The  voice  of  Enid,"  said  the  knight:  but  she, 
Beholding  it  was  Edyrn  son  of  Nudd, 
Was  moved  so  much  the  more,  and  shriek'd  again, 
"  O  cousin,  slay  not  him  who  gave  you  life." 
And  Edyrn  moving  frankly  forward  spake: 
"  My  lord  Geraint,  I  greet  you  with  all  love; 
I  took  you  for  a  bandit  knight  of  Doorm ; 
And  fear  not,  Enid,  I  should  fall  upon  him, 
Who  love  you,  Prince,  with  something  of  the  love 
Wherewith  we  love  the  Heaven  that  chastens  us. 
For  once,  when  I  was  up  so  high  in  pride 
That  I  was  half  way  down  the  slope  to  Hell, 
By  overthrowing  me  you  threw  me  higher, 
Now,  made  a  knight  of  Arthur's  Table  Round, 
And  since  I  knew  this  Earl,  when  I  myself 
Was  half  a  bandit  in  my  lawless  hour, 
I  come  the  mouthpiece  of  our  King  to  Doorm 
(The  King  is  close  behind  me)  bidding  him 
Disband  himself,  and  scatter  all  his  powers, 
Submit,  and  hear  the  judgment  of  the  King." 

"  He  hears  the  judgment  of  the  King  of  Kings," 
Cried  the  wan  Prince:  "  and  lo  the  powers  of  Doorm 
Are  scatter'd,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  field 
Where,  huddled  here  and  there  on  mound  and  knoll 
Were  men  and  women  staring  and  aghast, 
While  some  yet  fled;  and  then  he  plainlier  told 
How  the  huge  Earl  lay  slain  within  his  hall. 
But  when  the  knight  besought  him,  "  Follow  me 
Prince,  to  the  camp,  and  in  the  King's  own  ear 
Speak  what  has  chanced;  you  surely  have  endur'd 
Strange  chances  here  alone;"  that  other  flush'd, 


ENID.  623 


And  hung  his  head,  and  halted  in  reply, 

Fearing  the  mild  face  of  the  blameless  King, 

And  after  madness  acted  question  ask'd: 

Till  Edyrn  crying,  "  If  you  will  not  go 

To  Arthur,  then  will  Arthur  come  to  you," 

M  Enough,"  he  said,  "  I  follow,"  and  they  went. 

Hut  Enid  in  their  going  had  two  fears, 

One  from  the  bandits  scatter' d  in  the  field, 

And  one  from  Edyrn.     Every  now  and  then, 

When  Edyrn  rein'd  his  charger  at  her  side. 

She  shrank  a  little.     In  a  hollow  land, 

From  which  old  fires  have  broken,  men  may  tear 

Fresh  fire  and  ruin.     He,"  perceiving,  said : 

"  Fair  and  dear  cousin,  you  that  most  had  cause 
To  fear  me,  fear  no  longer,  I  am  changed. 
Yourself  were  first  the  blameless  cause  to  make 
My  nature's  prideful  sparkle  in  the  blood 
Break  into  furious  flame;  being  repulsed 
By  Yniol  and  yourself,  I  schemed  and  wrought 
Until  I  overturn'd  him;  then  set  up 
(With  one  main  purpose  ever  at  my  heart) 
My  haughty  jousts,  and  took  a  paramour; 
Did  her  mock-honor  as  the  fairest  fair, 
And,  toppling  over  all   antagonism, 
So  wax'd  in  pride,  that  I  believed  myself 
Unconquerable,  for  I  was  well-nigh  mad : 
And,  but  for  my  main  purpose  in  these  joust 
I  should  have  slain  your  father,  seized  yourself 
I  lived  in  hope  that  some  time  you  would  come 
To  these  my  lists  with  him  whom  best  you  loved; 
And  there,  poor  cousin,  with  your  meek  blue  eyes, 
The  truest  eyes  that  ever  answer'd  heaven, 
Behold  me  overturn  and  trample  on  him. 
Then,  had  you  cried,  or  knelt,  or  pray VI  to  me, 
I  should  not  less  have  killed  him.     And  you  came,- 
But  once  you  came, — and  with  your  own  true  eyes 
Beheld  the  man  you  loved  (I  speak  as  one 
Speaks  of  a  service  done  him)  overthrow 
My  proud  self,  and  my  purpose  three  years  old, 
And  set  his  foot  upon  me,  and  give  me  life. 
There  was  I  broken  down;  there  was  I  saved: 
Tho'  thence  I  rode  all-shamed,  hating  the  life 
He  gave  me,  meaning  to  be  rid  of  it. 


624  ENID. 


And  all  the  penance  the  Queen  laid  upon  me 

Was  but  to  rest  awhile  within  her  court; 

Where  first  as  sullen  as  a  beast  new-caged, 

And  waiting  to  be  treated  like  a  wolf 

Because  I  knew  my  deeds  were  known,  I  found, 

Instead  of  scornful  pity  or  pure  scorn, 

Such  fine  reserve  and  noble  reticence, 

Manners  so  kind,  yet  stately,  such  a  grace 

Of  tenderest  courtesy,  that  I  began 

To  glance  behind  me  at  my  former  life, 

And  find  that  it  had  been  the  wolf's  indeed : 

And  oft  I  talk'd  with  Dubric,  the  high  saint, 

Who,  with  mild  heat  of  holy  oratory, 

Subdued  me  somewhat  to  that  gentleness, 

Which,  when  it  weds  with  manhood,  makes  a  man 

And  you  were  often  there  about  the  Queen, 

But  saw  me  not,  or  marked  not  if  you  saw; 

Nor  did  I  care  or  dare  to  speak  with  you, 

But  kept  myself  aloof  till  I' was  changed; 

And  fear  not,  cousin ;  I  am  changed  indeed." 

He  spoke,  and  Enid  easily  believed, 
Like  simple  noble  natures,  credulous 
Of  what  they  long  for,  good  in  friend  or  foe, 
There  most  in  those  who  most  have  done  them  ill 
And  when  they  reach'd  the  camp  the  king  himself 
Advanced  to  greet  them,  and  beholding  her 
Tho'  pale,  yet  happy,  ask'd  her  not  a  word, 
But  went  apart  with  Edyrn,  whom  he  held 
In  converse  for  a  little  and  return'd, 
And  gravely  smiling,  lifted  her  from  horse, 
And  kiss'd  her  with  all  pureness,  brother-like, 
And  show'd  an  empty  tent  allotted  her, 
And  glancing  for  a  minute,  till  he  saw  her 
Pass  into  it,  turn'd  to  the  Prince,  and  said : 

"  Prince,  when  of  late  you  pray'd  me  for  my  leave 
To  move  to  your  own  land,  and  there  defend 
Your  marches,  I  was  prick'd  with  some  reproof, 
As  one  that  let  foul  wrong  stagnate  and  be, 
By  having  look'd  too  much  thro'  alien  eyes, 
And  wrought  too  long  with  delegated  hands, 
Not  used  mine  own:  but  now  behold  me  come 
To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all  my  realm, 


ENID.  625 


With  Edyrn  and  with  others:  have  you  look'd 

At  Edyrn?  have  you  seen  how  nobly  changed? 

This  work  of  his  is  great  and  wonderful. 

I IU  very  face  with  change  of  heart  is  changed. 

The  world  will  not  believe  a  man  repents: 

And  this  wise  world  of  ours  is  mainly  right. 

Full  seldom  does  a  man  repent,  or  use 

Both  grace  and  will  to  pick  the  vicious  quitch 

Of  blood  and  custom  wholly  out  of  him, 

And  make  all  clean,  and  plant  himself  afresh. 

Edyrn  has  done  it,  weeding  all  his  heart 

As  I  will  weed  this  land  before  I  go. 

I,  therefore,  made  him  of  our  Table  Round, 

Not  rashly,  but  have  proved  him  every  way 

One  of  our  noblest,  our  most  valorous, 

Sanest  and  most  obedient:  and  indeed 

This  work  of  Edyrn  wrought  upon  himself 

After  a  life  of  violence,  seems  to  me 

A  thousand-fold   more  great  and  wonderful 

Than  if  some  knight  of  mine,  risking  his  life, 

My  subject  with  my  subjects  under  him, 

Should  make  an  onslaught  single  on  a  realm 

Of  robbers,  tho'  he  slew  them  one  by  one, 

And  were  himself  nigh  wounded  to  the  death." 

So  spake  the  king;  low  bow'd  the  Prince  and  fel* 
His  work  was  neither  great  nor  wonderful, 
And  past  to  Enid's  tent;  and  thither  came 
The  King's  own  leech  to  look  into  his  hurt; 
And  Enid  tended  on  him  there;  and  there 
Her  constant  motion  round  him,  and  the  breath 
Of  her  sweet  tendance  hovering  over  him, 
Fill'd  all  the  genial  courses  of  his  blood 
With  deeper  and  with  ever  deeper  love 
At  the  south-west  that  blowing  Bala  lake 
Fills  all  the  sacred  Dee.     So  past  the  days. 

But  while  Geraint  lay  healing  of  his  hurt, 
The  blameless  King  went  forth  and  cast  his  eyes 
On  whom  his  father  Uther  left  in  charge 
Long  since,  to  guard  the  justice  of  the  King: 
He  looked  and  found  them  wanting;  and  as  now 
Men  weed  the  white  horse  on  the  Berkshire  hills 
To  keep  him  bright  and  clean  as  heretofore, 


626 


ENID. 


He  rooted  out  the  slothful  officer 

Or  guilty,  which  for  bribe  had  wink'd  at  wrong, 

And  in  their  chairs  set  up  a  stronger  race 

With  hearts  and  hands,  and  sent  a  thousand  men 

To  till  the  wastes,  and  moving  everywhere 

Clear'd  the  dark  places  and  let  in  the  law, 

And  broke  the  bandit  holds  and  cleansed  the  land. 


Then,  when  Geraint  was  whole  again,  they  past 
With  Arthur  to  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 
There  the  great  Queen  once  more  embrac'd  her  friend. 
And  clothed  her  in  apparel  like  the  day. 
And  tho'  Geraint  could  never  take  again 
That  comfort  from  their  converse  which  he  took 
Before  the  Queen's  fair  name  was  breathed  upon, 
He  rested  well  content  that  all  was  well. 
Thence  after  tarrying  for  a  space  they  rode, 
And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them  to  the  shores 
Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own  land. 
And  there  he  kept  the  justice  of  the  King 
So  vigorously  yet  mildly,  that  all  hearts 
Applauded,  and  the  spiteful  whisper  died: 
And  being  ever  foremost  in  the  chase, 
And  victor  at  the  tilt  and  tournament, 
They  call'd  him  the  great  Prince  and  man  of  men. 
But  Enid,  whom  her  ladies  loved  to  call 
Enid  the  Fair,  a  grateful  people  named 
Enid  the  Good;  and  in  their  halls  arose 
The  cry  of  children,  Enids  and  Geraints 
Of  times  to  be;  nor  did  he  doubt  her  more 
But  rested  in  her  fealty,  till  he  crown'd 
A  happy  life  with  a  fair  death,  and  fell 
Against  the  heathen  of  the  Northern  Sea 
In  battle,  fighting  for  the  blameless  King. 


VIVIEN. 


627 


VIVIEN. 


g'V^  STORM  was  comi  lg,  but  the  winds  were  still, 
And  in  the  wild  woods  of  Broceli;  .ice, 
Before  an  oak,  so  hollow  huge  and  old, 
It  look'd  a  tower  of  ruin'd  masonwork, 
At  Merlin's  feet  the  wily  Vivien  lav. 


The  wily  Vivien  stole  from  Arthur's  court: 
She  hated  all  the  knights,  and  heard  in  thought 
Their  lavish  comment  when  her  name  was  named. 
For  once  when  Arthur  walking  all  alone, 
Vext  at  a  rumor  rife  about  the  Queen, 
Had  met  her,  Vivien,  being  greeted  fair, 
Would  fain  have  wrought  upon  his  cloudy  mood 
With  reverent  eyes  mock-loyal,  shaken  voice, 
And  fluttered  adoration,  and  at  last 
With  dark  sweet  hints  of  some  who  prized  him  more 
Than  who  should  prize  him  most;  at  which  the  King 
Had  gazed  upon  her  blankly  and  gone  by : 
But  one  had  watch'd,  and  had  not  held  his  peace: 
It  made  the  laughter  of  an  afternoon 
That  Vivien  should  attempt  the  blameless  King. 
And  after  that,  she  set  herself  to  gain 
Him,  the  most  famous  man  of  all  those  times, 
Merlin,  who  knew  the  range  of  all  their  arts, 
Had  built  the  King  his  havens,  ships,  and  halls, 
Was  also  Bard,  and  knew  the  starry  heavens; 
The  people  called  him  Wizard;  whom  at  first 
She  play'd  about  with  slight  and  sprightly  talk 
And  vivid  smiles,  and  faintly-venom'd  points 
Of  slander,  glancing  here  and  grazing  there; 
And  yielding  to  his  kindlier  moods,  the  Seer 
Would  watch  her  at  her  petulance,  and  play, 
Ev'n  when  they  seem'd  unlovable,  and  laugh 
As  those  that  watch  a  kitten;  thus  he  grew 
Tolerant  of  what  he  half  disdainM,  and  she, 
Perceiving  that  she  was  but  half  disdain'd, 
Began  to  break  her  sports  with  graver  fiti, 


628  VIVIEN. 


Turn  red  or  pale,  would  often  when  they  met 

Sigh  fully,  or  all-silent  gaze  upon  him 

With  such  a  fixt  devotion,  that  the  old  man, 

Tho'  doubtful,  felt  the  flattery,  and  at  times 

Would  flatter  his  own  wish  in  age  for  love, 

And  half  believe  her  true:  for  thus  at  times 

He  waver'd;  but  that  other  clung  to  him, 

Fixt  in  her  will,  and  so  the  seasons  went. 

Then  fell  upon  him  a  great  melancholy; 

And  leaving  Arthur's  court  he  gain'd  the  beach; 

There  found  a  little  boat,  and  stept  into  it; 

And  Vivien  followed,  but  he  mark'd  her  not. 

She  took  the  helm  and  he  the  sail;  the  boat 

Drave  with  a  sudden  wind  across  the  deeps, 

And  touching  Breton  sands  they  disembark'd. 

And  then  she  folio  w'd  Merlin  all  the  way, 

Ev'n  to  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande. 

For  Merlin  once  had  told  her  of  a  'harm 

The  which  if  any  wrought  on  any  one 

With  woven  paces  and  with  waving  arms,  ' 

The  man  so  wrought  on  ever  seem'd  to  lie 

Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  the  hollow  tower, 

From  which  was  no  escape  forevermore ; 

And  none  could  find  that  man  forevermore, 

Nor  could  he  see  but  him  who  wrought  the  charm 

Coming  and  going,  and  he  lay  as  dead 

And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and  fame. 

And  Vivien  ever  sought  to  work  the  charm 

Upon  the  great  Enchanter  of  the  Time, 

As  fancying  that  her  glory  would  be  great 

According  to  his  greatness  whom  she  quench'd. 

There  lay  she  all  her  length  and  kiss'd  his  feet, 

As  if  in  deepest  reverence  and  in  love. 

A  twist  of  gold  was  round  her  hair;  a  robe 

Of  samite  without  price,  that  more  exprest 

Than  hid  her,  clung  about  her  lissome  limbs, 

In  color  like  the  satin-shining  palm 

Oh  sallows  in  the  windy  gleams  of  March : 

And  while  she  kiss'd  them,  crying,  "  Trample  me. 

Dear  feet,  that  I  have  follow'd  thro'  the  world, 

And  I  will  pay  you  worship;  tread  me  down 

And  I  will  kiss  you  for  it;"  he  was  mute: 

So  dark  a  forethought  roll'd  about  his  brain, 

As  on  a  dull  day  in  an  Ocean  cave 

The  blind  wave  feeling  round  his  long  seahall 


VIVIEN. 


In  silence:  wherefore,  when  she  lifted  up 

A  face  of  sad  appeal,  and  spake  and  said, 

"  O  Merlin,  do  you  love  me  ? "  and  again, 

"O  Merlin,  do  you  love  me?"  and  once  more, 

■  Great  Master,  do  you  love  me?"  he  was  mute. 

And  lissome  Vivien,  holding  by  his  heel, 

Writhed  toward  him,  slided  up  his  knee  and  sat, 

Behind  his  ankle  twined  her  hollow  feet 

Together,  curved  an  arm  about  his  neck, 

Clung  like  a  snake;  and  letting  her  left  hand 

Droop  from  his  mighty  shoulder  as  a  leaf, 

Made  with  her  right  a  comb  of  pearl  to  part 

The  lists  of  such  a  beard  as  youth  gone  out 

Had  left  in  ashes:  then  he  spoke  and  said, 

Not  looking  at  her,  "  Who  are  wise  in  love 

Love  most,  say  least, "  and  Vivien  answer'd  quick, 

"  I  saw  the  little  elf-god  eyeless  once 

In  Arthur's  arras  hall  at  Camelot: 

But  neither  eyes  nor  tongue, — O  stupid  child! 

Yet  you  are  wise  who  say  it;  let  me  think 

Silence  is  wisdom :  I  am  silent  then 

And  ask  no  kiss;"  then  adding  all  at  once, 

"  And  lo,  I  clothe  myself  with  wisdom, "  drew 

The  vast  and  shaggy  mantle  of  his  beard 

Across  her  neck  and  bosom  to  her  knee, 

And  call'd  herself  a  gilded  summer  fly 

Caught  in  a  great  old  tyrant  spider's  web, 

Who  meant  to  eat  her  up  in  that  wild  wood 

Without  one  word.     So  Vivien  call'd  herself, 

But  rather  seem'd  a  lovely  baleful  star 

VeiPd  in  gray  vapor;  till  he  sadly  smiled: 

«*  To  what  request  for  what  strange  boon,"  he  said, 

"Are  these  your  pretty  tricks  and  fooleries, 

0  Vivien,  the  preamble?  yet  my  thanks, 
For  these  have  broken  up  my  melancholy." 

And  Vivien  answer' d  smiling  saucily, 
"  What,  O  my  master,  have  you  found  your  voice? 

1  bid  the  stranger  welcome.     Thanks  at  last! 
But  yesterday  you  never  open'd  lip, 
Except  indeed  to  drink:  no  cup  had  we: 

In  mine  own  lady  palms  I  cull'd  the  spring 
That  gather'd  trickling  dropwise  from  the  cleft, 
And  made  a  pretty  cup  of  both  my  hands 


630  VIVIEN. 


And  offer'd  you  it  kneeling:  then  you  drank 
And  knew  no  more,  nor  gave  me  one  poor  word; 

0  no  more  thanks  than  might  a  goat  have  given 
With  no  more  sign  of  reverence  than  a  beard. 
And  when  he  halted  at  that  other  well, 

And  I  was  faint  to  swooning,  and  you  lay 
Foot-gilt  with  all  the  blossom-dust  of  those 
Deep  meadows  we  had  traversed,  did  you  know 
That  Vivien  bathed  your  feet  before  her  own  ? 
And  yet  no  thanks:  and  all  thro'  this  wild  wood 
And  all  this  morning  when  I  fondled  you : 
Boon,  yes,  there  was  a  boon,  one  not  so  strange — 
How  had  I  wrong'd  you  ?  surely  you  are  wise, 
But  such  a  silence  is  more  wise  than  kind." 

And  Merlin  lock'd  his  hand  in  hers  and  said: 
U  O  did  you  never  lie  upon  the  shore, 
And  watch  the  curl'd  white  of  the  coming  wave 
Glass' d  in  the  slippery  sand  before  it  breaks? 
Ev'n  such  a  wave,  but  not  so  pleasurable, 
Dark  in  the  glass  of  some  presageful  mood, 
Had  I  for  three  days  seen,  ready  to  fall. 
And  then  I  rose  and  fled  from  Arthur's  court 
To  break  the  mood.     You  follow'd  me  unask'd; 
And  when  I  look'd,  and  saw  you  following  still, 
My  mind  involved  yourself  the  nearest  thing 
In  that  mind-mist :  for  shall  I  tell  you  truth  ? 
You  seem'd  that  wave  about  to  break  upon  me 
And  sweep  me  from  my  hold  upon  the  world, 
My  use  and  name  and  fame.     Your  pardon,  child. 
Your  pretty  sports  have  brighten'd  all  again. 
And  ask  your  boon,  for  boon  I  owe  you  thrice, 
Once  for  wrong  done  you  by  confusion,  next 
For  thanks  it  seems  till  now  neglected,  last 
For  these  your  dainty  gambols:  wherefore  ask: 
And  take  this  boon  so  strange  and  not  so  strange.'1 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  mournfully: 
"  O  not  so  strange  as  my  long  asking  it, 
Nor  yet  so  strange  as  you  yourself  are  strange, 
Nor  half  so  strange  as  that  dark  mood  of  yours. 

1  ever  fear'd  you  were  not  wholly  mine ; 

And  see,  yourself  have  own'd  you  did  me  wrong. 
The  people  call  you  prophet:  let  it  be: 


VIVIEN.  63J 


But  not  of  those  that  can  expound  themselves. 

Take  Vivien  for  expounder;  she  will  call 

That  three-days-long  presageful  gloom  of  yours 

No  presage,  but  the  same  mistrustful  mooci 

That  makes  you  seem  less  noble  than  yourself, 

Whenever  I  have  ask'd  this  very  boon, 

Now  askM  again:  for  see  you  not,  dear  love, 

That  such  a  mood  as  that,  which  lately  gloom'd 

Your  fancy  when  you  saw  me  following  you, 

Must  make  me  fear  still  more  you  are  not  mine, 

Must  make  me  yearn  still  more  to  prove  you  mine, 

And  make  me  wish  still  more  to  learn  this  charm 

Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands, 

As  proof  of  trust.     O  Merlin,  teach  it  nu-. 

The  charm  so  taught  will  charm  us  both  to  rest. 

For,  grant  me  some  slight  power  upon  your  fate, 

I,  feeling  that  you  felt  me  worthy  trust, 

Should  rest  and  let  you  rest,  knowing  you  mine, 

And  therefore  be  as  great  as  you  are  named, 

Not  muffled  round  with  selfish  reticence. 

How  hard  you  look  and  how  denyingly ! 

O,  if  you  think  this  wickedness  in  me, 

That  I  should  prove  it  on  you  una  wan 

To  make  you  lose  your  use  and  name  and  fame, 

That  makes  me  most  indignant;  then  our  bond* 

Had  best  be  loosed  forever:  but  think  or  not, 

By  Heaven  that  hears  I  tell  you  the  clean  truth, 

As  clean  as  blood  of  babes,  as  white  as  milk: 

O  Merlin,  may  this  earth,  if  ever  I, 

If  these  unwitty  wandering  wits  of  mine, 

Ev'n  in  the  jumbled  rubbish  of  a  dream, 

Have  tript  on  such  conjectural  treachery — 

May  this  hard  earth  cleave  to  the  Nadir  hell 

Down,  down,  and  close  again,  and  nip  me  flat, 

If  I  be  such  a  traitress.     Yield  my  boon, 

Till  which  I  scarce  can  yield  you  all  I  am; 

And  grant  my  re-reiterated  wish, 

The  great  proof  of  your  love:  because  I  think, 

However  wise,  you  hardly  know  me  yet." 

And  Merlin  loosed  his  hand  from  her  and  said: 
"  I  never  was  less  wise,  however  wise, 
Too  curious  Vivien,  tho'  you  talk  of  trust, 
Than  when  I  told  you  first  of  such  a  charm. 


632  VIVIEN. 


Yea,  if  you  talk  of  trust  I  tell  you  this, 

Too  much  I  trusted,  when  I  told  you  that, 

And  stirr'd  this  vice  ill  you  which  ruin'd  man 

Thro'  woman  the  first  hour;  for  howsoe'er 

In  children  a  great  curiousness  be  well, 

Who  have  to  learn  themselves  and  all  the  world, 

In  you,  that  are  no  child,  for  still  I  find 

Your  face  is  practised,  when  I  spell  the  lines, 

I  call  it, — well,  I  will  not  call  it  vice: 

But  since  you  name  yourself  the  summer  fly, 

I  well  could  wish  a  cobweb  for  the  gnat, 

That  settles,  beaten  back,  and  beaten  back 

Settles,  till  one  could  yield  for  weariness: 

But  since  I  will  not  yield  to  give  you  power 

Upon  my  life  and  use  and  name  and  fame, 

Why  will  you  never  ask  some  other  boon? 

Yea,  by  God's  rood,  I  trusted  you  too  much." 

And  Vivien,  like  the  tenderest-hearted  maid 
That  ever  bided  tryst  at  village  stile, 
Made  answer,  either  eyelid  wet  with  tears. 
"  Nay,  master,  be  not  wrathful  with  your  maid ; 
Caress  her:  let  her  feel  herself  forgiven 
Who  feels  no  heart  to  ask  another  boon. 
I  think  you  hardly  know  the  tender  rhyme 
Of  'trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 
I  heard  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  sing  it  once, 
And  it  shall  answer  for  me.     Listen  to  it. 

*  In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love  be  ourg 
Faith  and  unfaith  can  ne'er  be  equal  powers: 
Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all. 

1  It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute, 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music  mute, 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

4  The  little  rift  within  the  lover's  lute, 
Or  "little  pitted  speck  in  garner'd  fruit, 
That  rotting  inward  slowly  moulders  all. 

It  is  not  worth  the  keeping :  let  it  go : 
But  shall  it?  answer,  darling,  answer,  no. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 


vivien.  633 


«0  master,  do  you  love  my  tender  rhyme?" 

And  Merlin  look'd  and  half  believed  her  true, 
So  tender  was  her  voice,  so  fair  her  face, 
So  sweetly  gleam'd  her  eyes  behind  her  tears 
Like  sunlight  on  the  plain  behind  a  shower: 
And  yet  he  answer'd  half  indignantly : 

**  Far  other  was  the  song  that  once  I  heard 
By  this  huge  oak,  sung  nearly  where  we  sit: 
For  here  we  met,  some  ten  or  twelve  of  us, 
To  chase  a  creature  that  was  current  then 
In  these  wild  woods,  the  hart  with  golden  horns. 
It  was  the  time  when  first  the  question  rose 
About  the  founding  of  a  Table  Round, 
That  was  to  be,  for  love  of  God  and  men 
And  noble  deeds,  the  flower  of  all  the  world. 
And  each  incited  each  to  noble  deeds. 
And  while  we  waited,  one,  the  youngest  of  us, 
We  could  not  keep  him  silent,  out  he  flash'd, 
And  into  such  a  song,  such  fire  for  fame, 
Such  trumpet-blowings  in  it,  coming  down 
To  such  a  stern  and  iron-clashing  close, 
That  when  he  stopt  we  long'd  to  hurl  together, 
And  should  have  done  it;  but  the  beauteous  beast 
Scared  by  the  noise  upstarted  at  our  feet, 
And  like  a  silver  shadow  slipt  away 
Thro'  the  dim  land;  and  all  day  long  we  rode 
Thro*  the  dim  land  against  a  rushing  wind, 
That  glorious  roundel  echoing  in  our  ears, 
And  chased  the  flashes  of  his  golden  horns 
Until  they  vanished  by  the  fairy  well 
That  laughs  at  iron — as  our  warriors  did — 
Where  children  cast  their  pins  and  nails,  and  cry, 
u  Laugh  little  well,"  but  touch  it  with  a  sword, 
It  buzzes  wildly  round  the  point;  and  there 
We  lost  him :  such  a  noble  song  was  that. 
But,  Vivien,  when  you  sang  me  that  sweet  rhyme, 
I  felt  as  tho'  you  knew  this  cursed  charm, 
Were  proving  it  on  me,  and  that  I  lay 
And  felt  them  slowly  ebbing,  name  and  fame." 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  mournfully, 
u  O  mine  have  ebb'd  away  forevermore, 


634  VIVIEN. 


And  all  thro'  following  you  to  this  wild  wood, 

Because  I  saw  you  sad,  to  comfort  you. 

Lo  now,  what  hearts  have  men!  they  never  mount 

As  high  as  woman  in  her  selfless  mood. 

And  touching  fame,  howe'er  you  scorn  my  song 

Take  one  verse  more — the  lady  speaks  it— this: 

4  My  name,  once  mine,  now  thine,  is  closelier  mine, 
For  fame,  could  fame  be  mine,  that  fame  were  thine, 
And  shame,  could  shame  be  thine,  that  shame  were  mine. 
So  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 

"  Says  she  not  well?  and  there  is  more — this  rhyme 
Is  like  the  fair  pearl  necklace  of  the  Queen, 
That  burst  in  dancing,  and  the  pearls  were  spilt; 
Some  lost,  some  stolen,  some  as  relics  kept. 
But  nevermore  the  same  two  sister  pearls 
Ran  down  the  silken  thread  to  kiss  each  other 
On  her  white  neck — so  it  is  with  this  rhyme; 
It  lives  dispersedly  in  many  hands, 
And  every  minstrel  sings  it  differently ; 
Yet  there  is  one  true  line,  the  pearl  of  pearls; 
•  Man  dreams  of  Fame  while  Woman  wakes  to  love.' 
True:  Love,  tho'  Love  were  of  the  grossest,  carves 
A  portion  from  the  solid  present,  eats 
And  uses,  careless  of  the  rest;  but  Fame, 
The  Fame  that  follows  death  is  nothing  to  us; 
And  what  is  Fame  in  life  but  half-disfame, 
And  counterchanged  with  darkness?  you  yourself 
Know  well  that  Envy  calls  you  Devil's  son, 
And  since  you  seem  the  Master  of  all  Art, 
They  fain  would  make  you  Master  of  all  Vice." 

And  Merlin  lock'd  his  hand  in  hers  and  said, 
"  I  once  was  looking  for  a  magic  weed, 
And  found  a  fair  young  squire  who  sat  alone, 
Had  carved  himself  a  knightly  shield  of  wood, 
And  then  was  painting  on  it  fancied  arms, 
Azure,  an  Eagle  rising,  or,  the  Sun 
In  dexter  chief;  the  scroll  * I  follow  fame.' 
And  speaking  not,  but  leaning  over  him, 
I  took  his  brush  and  blotted  out  the  bird, 
And  made  a  Gardener  putting  in  a  grafF, 
With  this  for  motto, i  Rather  use  than  fame.' 


VIVIEN.  631 


You  should  have  seen  him  blush;  but  afterwards 

He  made  a  stalwart  knight.     O  Vivien, 

For  you,  methinks  you  think  you  love  me  well; 

For  me,  I  love  you  somewhat:  rest:  and  Love 

Should  have  some  rest  and  pleasure  in  himself, 

Not  ever  be  too  curious  for  a  boon, 

Too  prurient  for  a  proof  against  the  grain 

Of  him  you  say  you  love:  but  Fame  with  men, 

Being  but  ampler  means  to  serve  mankind, 

Should  have  small  rest  or  pleasure  in  herself, 

But  work  as  vassal  to  the  larger  love 

That  dwarfs  the  petty  love  of  one  to  one, 

Use  gave  me  Fame  at  first,  and  Fame  again 

Increasing  gave  me  use.     Lo,  there  my  boon! 

What  other?  for  men  sought  to  prove  me  vile. 

Because  I  wish'd  to  give  them  greater  minds; 

And  then  did  Envy  call  me  Devil's  son; 

The  sick  weak  beast  seeking  to  help  herself 

By  striking  at  her  better,  miss'd,  and  brought 

Her  own  claw  back,  and  wounded  her  own  heart. 

Sweet  were  the  days  when  I  was  all  unknown, 

But  when  my  name  was  lifted  up,  the  storm 

Broke  on  the  mountain  and  I  cared  not  for  it. 

Right  well  know  I  that  Fame  is  half  disfame, 

Yet  needs  must  work  my  work.     That  other  fame, 

To  one  at  least,  who  hath  not  children,  vague, 

The  cackle  of  the  unborn  about  the  grave, 

I  cared  not  for  it;  a  single  misty  star, 

Which  is  the  second  in  a  line  of  stars 

That  seem  a  sword  beneath  a  belt  of  three, 

I  never  gazed  upon  it  but  I  dreamt 

Of  some  vast  charm  concluded  in  that  star* 

To  make  fame  nothing.     Wherefore,  if  I  fear, 

Giving  you  power  upon  me  thro'  this  charm, 

That  you  might  play  me  falsely,  having  power, 

However  well  you  think  you  love  me  now 

(As  sons  of  kings  loving  in  pupilage 

Have  turn'd  to  tyrants  when  they  came  to  power) 

I  rather  dread  the  loss  of  use  than  fame; 

If  you — and  not  so  much  from  wickedness. 

As  some  wild  turn  of  anger,  or  a  mood 

Of  overstrained  affection,  it  may  be, 

To  keep  me  all  to  your  own  self,  or  else 

A  sudden  spurt  of  woman's  jealousy. 

Should  try  this  charm  on  whom  you  say  you  love." 


636  VIVIEN. 


And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  as  in  wrath: 
"Have  I  not  sworn?     I  am  not  trusted.     Good! 
Well,  hide  it,  hide  it;  I  shall  find  it  out; 
And  being  found  take  heed  of  Vivien. 
A  woman  and  not  trusted,  doubtless  I 
Might  feel  some  sudden  turn  of  anger  born 
Of  your  misfaith;  and  your  fine  epithet 
Is  accurate  too,  for  this  full  love  of  mine 
Without  the  full  heart,  back  may  merit  well 
Your  term  of  overstrain'd.     So  used  as  I, 
My  daily  wonder  is,  I  loved  at  all. 
And  as  to  woman's  jealousy,  O  why  not? 

0  to  what  end,  except  a  jealous  one, 
And  one  to  make  me  jealous  if  I  love, 
Was  this  fair  charm  invented  by  yourself  ? 

1  well  believe  that  all  about  this  world 
You  cage  a  buxom  captive  here  and  there, 
Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a  hollow  tower 
From  which  is  no  escape  forevermore." 


Then  the  great  Master  merrily  answer'd  her; 
"  Full  many  a  love  in  loving  youth  was  mine, 
I  needed  then  no  charm  to  keep  them  mine 
But  youth  and  love ;  and  that  full  heart  of  yours 
Whereof  you  prattle,  may  now  assure  you  mine; 
So  live  uncharm'd.     For  those  who  wrought  it  first, 
The  wrist  is  parted  from  the  hand  that  waved, 
The  feet  unmortised  from  their  ankle-bones 
Who  paced  it,  ages  back :  but  will  you  hear 
The  legend  as  in  guerdon  for  your  rhyme? 


"  There  lived  a  king  in  the  most  Eastern  East, 
Less  old  than  I,  yet  older,  for  my  blood 
Hath  earnest  in  it  of  far  springs  to  be. 
A  tawny  pirate  anchor' d  in  his  port, 
Whose  bark  had  plunder'd  twenty  nameless  isles; 
And  passing  one,  at  the  high  peep  of  dawn, 
He  saw  two  cities  in  a  thousand  boats 
All  fighting  for  a  woman  on  the  sea, 
And  pushing  his  black  craft  among  them  all, 
He  lightly  scatter'd  theirs  and  brought  her  off, 
With  loss  of  half  his  people  arrow-slain ; 
A  maid  so  smooth,  so  white,  so  wonderful,  . 
They  said  a  light  came  from  her  when  she  moved ; 


(637) 


638  VIVIEN. 


And  since  the  pirate  would  not  yield  her  up, 

The  King  impaled  him  for  his  piracy; 

Then  made  her  Queen:  but  those  isle-nurtur'd  eyes 

Waged  such  unwilling  tho'  successful  war 

On  all  the  youth,  they  sicken'd;  councils  thinn'd, 

And  armies  waned,  for  magnet-like  she  drew 

The  rustiest  iron  of  old  fighters'  hearts; 

And  beasts  themselves  would  worship;  camels  knelt 

Unbidden,  and  the  brutes  of  mountain  back 

That  carry  kings  in  castles,  bow'd  black  knees 

Of  homage,  ringing  with  their  serpent  hands, 

To  make  her  smile,  her  golden  ankle-bells. 

What  wonder  being  jealous,  that  he  sent 

His  horns  of  proclamation  out  thro'  all 

The  hundred  under-kingdoms  that  he  sway'd 

To  find  a  wizard  who  might  teach  the  King 

Some  charm,  which  being  wrought  upon  the  Queen 

Might  keep  her  all  his  own :  to  such  a  one 

He  promised  more  than  ever  king  had  given, 

A  league  of  mountain  full  of  golden  mines, 

A  province  with  a  hundred  miles  of  coast, 

A  palace  and  a  princess,  all  for  him : 

But  on  all  those  who  tried  and  fail'd,  the  King 

Pronounced  a  dismal  sentence,  meaning  by  it 

To  keep  the  list  low  and  pretenders  back, 

Or  like  a  king,  not  to  be  trifled  with — 

Their  heads  should  moulder  on  the  city  gates. 

And  many  tried  and  fail'd,  because  the  charm 

Of  nature  in  her  overbore  their  own : 

And  many  a  wizard  brow  bleach'd  on  the  walls: 

And  many  weeks  a  troop  of  carrion  crows 

Hung  like  a  cloud  above  the  gateway  towers." 

And  Vivien,  breaking  in  upon  him,  said: 
"  I  sit  and  gather  honey ;  yet,  methinks, 
Your  tongue  has  tript  a  little:  ask  yourself. 
The  lady  never  made  unwilling  war 
With  those  fine  eyes:  she  had  pleasure  in  it, 
And  made  her  good  man  jealous  with  good  cause. 
And  lived  there  neither  dame  nor  damsel  then 
Wroth  at  a  lover's  loss?  were  all  as  tame, 
I  mean,  as  noble,  as  their  Queen  was  fair? 
Not  one  to  flirt  a  venom  at  her  eyes, 
Or  pinch  a  murderous  dust  into  her  drink, 


VIVIEN. 


639 


Or  make  her  paler  with  a  poison'd  rose? 

Well,  those  were  not  our  days;  but  did  they  find 

A  wizard?     Tell  me,  was  he  like  to  thee?" 


She  ceased,  and  made  her  lithe  arm  around  his  neck 
Tighten,  and  then  drew  back,  and  let  her  eyes 
Speak  for  her,  glowing  on  him,  like  a  bride's 
On  her  new  lord,  her  own,  the  first  of  men. 


He  answer' d  laughing,  "  Nay,  not  like  to  me. 
At  last  they  found — his  foragers  for  charms — 
A  little  glassy-headed  hairless  man, 
\.     o  lived  alone  in  a  great  wild  on  gr;i 
Read  hut  one  book,  and  ever  reading  grew 
rated  down  and  filed  away  with  thought, 
m  his  eyes  were  monstrous;  while  the  skin 
Clung  but  to  crate  and  basket,  ribs  and  spine* 


640  VIVIEN. 


And  since  he  kept  his  mind  on  one  sole  aim, 

Nor  ever  louch'd  fierce  wine,  nor  tasted  flesh, 

Nor  own'd  a  sensual  wish,  to  him  the  wall 

That  sunders  ghosts  and  shadow-casting  men 

Became  a  crystal,  and  he  saw  them  thro'  it, 

And  heard  their  voices  talk  behind-  the  wall, 

And  learnt  their  elemental  secrets,  powers 

And  forces;  often  o'er  the  sun's  bright  eye 

Drew  the  vast  eyelid  of  an  inky  cloud, 

And  lash'd  it  at  the  base  with  slanting  storm; 

Or  in  the  noon  of  mist  and  driving  rain, 

When  the  lake  whiten'd  and  the  pine-wood  roar'd, 

And  the  cairn'd  mountain  was  a  shadow,  sunn'd 

The  world  to  peace  again:  here  was  the  man. 

And  so  by  force  they  dragg'd  him  to  the  King. 

And  then  he  taught  the  King  to  charm  the  Queen 

In  such  wise,  that  no  man  could  see  her  more, 

Nor  saw  she  save  the  King,  who  wrought  the  charm, 

Coming  and  going,  and  she  lay  as  dead, 

And  lost  all  use  of  life:  but  when  the  King 

Made  proffer  of  the  league  of  golden  mines, 

The  province  with  the  hundred  miles  of  coast, 

The  palace  and  the  princess,  that  old  man 

Went  back  to  his  old  wild,  and  lived  on  grass, 

And  vanish'd,  and  his  book  came  down  to  me." 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  saucily: 
"You  have  the  book:  the  charm  is  written  in  it: 
Good:  take  my  counsel:  let  me  know  it  at  once: 
For  keep  it  like  a  puzzle  chest  in  chest, 
With  each  chest  lock'd  and  padlock'd  thirty-fold, 
And  whelm  all  this  beneath  as  vast  a  mound 
As  after  furious  battle  turfs  the  slain 
On  some  wild  down  above  the  windy  deep, 
I  yet  should  strike  upon  a  sudden  means 
To  dig,  pick,  open,  find  and  read  the  charm : 
Then,  if  I  tried  it,  who  should  blame  me  then  ? 5J 

And  smiling  as  a  Master  smiles  at  one 
That  is  not  of  his  school,  nor  any  school 
But  that  where  blind  and  naked  Ignorance 
Delivers  brawling  judgments,  unashamed, 
On  a»ll  things  all  day  long,  he  answered  her: 


VIVIEN.  641 


"  Tou  read  the  book,  my  pretty  Vivien! 
O  ay,  it  is  but  twenty  pages  long, 
But  every  page  having  an  ample  marge, 
And  every  marge  enclosing  in  the  midst 
A  square  of  text  that  looks  a  little  blot, 
The  text  no  larger  than  the  limbs  of  fleas; 
And  every  square  of  text  an  awful  charm, 
Writ  in  a  language  that  has  long  gone  by. 
So  long,  that  mountains  have  arisen  since 
With  cities  on  their  flanks — you  read  the  book ! 
And  every  margin  scribbled,  crost  and  cramm'd 
With  comment,  densest  condensation,  hard 
To  mind  and  eye;  but  the  long  sleepless  nights 
Of  my  long  life  have  made  it  easy  to  me. 
And  none  can  read  the  text,  not  even  I; 
And  none  can  read  the  comment  but  myself; 
And  in  the  comment  did  I  find  the  charm. 
O,  the  results  are  simple;  a  mere  child 
Might  use  it  to  the  harm  of  any  one, 
And  never  could  undo  it:  ask  no  more: 
For  tho'  you  should  not  prove  it  upon  me, 
But  keep  that  oath  you  swore,  you  might,  perchance, 
Assay  it  on  some  one  of  the  Table  Round, 
And  all  because  you  dream  they  babble  of  you." 

And  Vivien,  frowning  in  true  anger,  said: 
**  What  dare  the  full-fed  liars  say  of  me? 
They  ride  abroad  redressing  human  wrongs! 
They  sit  with  knife  in  meat  and  wine  in  horn. 
They  bound  to  holy  vows  of  chastity ! 
Were  I  not  woman,  I  could  tell  a  tale. 
But  you  ;«re  man,  you  well  can  understand 
The  shame  that  cannot  be  explain'd  for  shame. 
Not  one  of  all  the  drove  should  touch  me:  swine!" 

Then  answered  Merlin  careless  of  her  words, 
**  You  breathe  but  accusation  vast  and  vague, 
Spleen-born,  I  think,  and  proofless.     If  you  know, 
Set  up  the  charge  you  know,  to  stand  or  fall ! " 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  frowning  wrathfully: 
uO  ay,  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Valence,  him 
Whose  kinsman  left  him  watcher  o'er  his  wife 
And  two  fair  babes,  and  went  to  distant  lands; 
41 


64k4  VIVIEN. 


Was  one  year  gone,  and  on  returning  found 

Not  two  but  three :  there  lay  the  reckling,  one 

But  one  hour  old!     What  said  the  happy  sire? 

A  seven  months'  babe  had  been  a  truer  gift. 

Those  twelve  sweet  moons  confused  his  fatherhood!" 

Then  answer'd  Merlin:  "  Nay,  I  know  the  tale. 
Sir  Valence  wedded  with  an  outland  dame: 
Some  cause  had  kept  him  sunder'd  from  his  wife: 
One  child  they  had:  it  lived  with  her:  she  died: 
His  kinsman  travelling  on  his  own  affair 
Was  charged  by  Valence  to  bring  home  the  child. 
He  brought,  not  found  it  therefore:  take  the  truth." 

"  O  ay,"  said  Vivien,  "  overtrue  a  tale. 
What  say  ye  then  to  sweet  Sir  Sagramore, 
That  ardent  man?  'to  pluck  the  flower  in  season;' 
So  says  the  song, <  I  trow  it  is  no  treason.' 
O  Master,  shall  we  call  him  overquick 
crop 


To  cron  his  own  sweet  rose  before  the  hour?  " 


And  Merlin  answer'd:  "Overquick  are  you 
To  catch  a  lofty  plume  fall'n  from  the  wing 
Of  that  foul  bird  of  rapine  whose  whole  prey 
Is  man's  good  name:  he  never  wronged  his  bride. 
I  know  the  tale.     An  angry  gust  of  wind 
Puff'd  out  his  torch  among  the  myriad-room'd 
And  many-corridor'd  complexities 
Of  Arthur's  palace :  then  he  found  a  door 
And  darkling  relt  the  sculptured  ornament 
That  wreathen  found  it  made  it  seem  his  own; 
And  wearied  out  made  for  the  couch  and  slept, 
A  stainless  man  beside  a  stainless  maid; 
And  either  slept,  nor  knew  of  other  there ; 
Till  the  high  dawn  piercing  the  royal  rose 
In  Arthur's  casement  glimmer'd  chastely  down, 
Blushing  upon  them  blushing,  and  at  once 
He  rose  without  a  word  and  parted  from  her: 
But  when  the  thing  was  blazed  about  the  court, 
The  brute  world  howling  forced  them  into  bonds. 
And  as  it  chanced  they  are  happy,  being  pure." 

"  O  ay,"  said  Vivien,  "  that  were  likely  too. 
What  say  ye  then  to  fair  Sir  Percivale 


VI VI  EN.  643 


Ami  of  the  horrid  foulness  that  he  wrought, 
The  saintly  youth,  the  spotless  lamb  of  Christ, 
Or  some  black  wether  of  St.  Satan's  fold. 
What,  in  the  precincts  of  the  chapel  yard, 
Among  the  knightly  brasses  of  the  graves, 
And  by  the  cold  Hie  Jacets  of  the  dead!" 

And  Merlin  answer'd,  careless  of  her  charge: 
"A  sober  man  IS  Perdvale  and  pure; 
But  once  in  life  was  flusttr'd  with  new  wine; 
Then  paced  for  coolness  in  the  chapel-yard, 
Where  one  of  Satan's  shepherdesses  caught 
And  meant  to  stamp  him  with  her  master**  mark; 
And  that  he  sinn'd,  is  not  believable; 
For,  look  upon  his  face! — but  if  he  Binn'd, 
The  sin  that  practice  burns  into  the  blood, 
And  not  the  one  dark  hour  which  brings  remorse, 
Will  brand  us,  after,  of  whose  fold  we  be: 
Or  else  were  he,  the  holy  king,  whose  hymns 
Are  chanted  in  the  minster,  worse  than  all. 
But  is  your  spleen  froth'd  out,  or  have  ye  more?  " 

And  Vivien  answer'd  frowning  yet  in  wrath: 
"  O  ay;  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Lancelot,  friend? 
Traitor  or  true?  that  commerce  with  the  Queen, 
I  ask  you,  is  it  clamor'd  by  the  child, 
Or  whisper'*]  in  the  corner?  do  you  know  it?  " 

~fe,  which  he  answer'd  sadly:  u  Yea,  I  know  it. 
Sir  Lancelot  went  ambassador,  at  first, 
To  fetch  her,  and  she  took  him  for  the  King; 
So  fixt  her  fancy  on  him:  let  him  be. 
But  have  you  no  one  word  of  loyal  praise 
For  Arthur,  blameless  King  and  stainless  man  ?  " 

She  answer'd  with  a  low  and  chuckling  laugh: 
"  Ilimr   is  he  a  man  at  all,  who  knows  and  winks* 

what  his  fair  bride  is  and  does,  and  winks? 
By  which  the  good  king  means  to  blind  himself, 
And  blinds  himself  and  all  the  Table  Round 
To  all  the  foulness  that  they  work.     Myself 
Could  call  him  (were  it  not  for  womanhood) 
The  pretty,  popular  name  such  manhood  earns, 


644  VIVIEN. 


Could  call  him  the  main  cause  of  all  their  crime; 
Yea,  were  he  not  crown' d  king,  coward,  and  fool." 

Then  Merlin  to  his  own  heart,  loathing,  said : 
"  O  true  and  tender!  O  my  liege  and  king! 

0  selfless  man  and  stainless  gentleman, 

Who  wouldst  against  thine  own  eye-witness  fain 

Have  all  men  true  and  leal,  all  women  pure: 

How,  in  the  mouths  of  base  interpreters, 

From  over-fineness  not  intelligible 

To  things  with  every  sense  as  false  and  foul 

As  the  poached  filth  that  floods  the  middle  street, 

Is  thy  white  blamelessness  accounted  blame!" 

But  Vivien  deeming  Merlin  overborne 
By  instance,  recommenced,  and  let  her  tongue 
Rage  like  a  fire  among  the  noblest  names, 
Polluting,  and  imputing  her  whole  self, 
Defaming  and  defacing,  till  she  left 
Not  even  Lancelot  brave,  nor  Galahad  clean. 

Her  words  had  issue  other  than  she  will'd. 
He  dragg'd  his  eyebrow  bushes  down,  and  made 
A  snowy  penthouse  for  his  hollow  eyes, 
And  mutter'd  in  himself,  "  Tell  her  the  charm ! 
So,  if  she  had  it,  would  she  rail  on  me 
To  snare  the  next,  and  if  she  have  it  not, 
So  will  she  rail.     What  did  the  wanton  say  ? 
4  Not  mount  as  high ; '  we  scarce  can  sink  as  low : 
For  men  at  most  differ  as  Heaven  and  earth, 
But  women,  worst  and  best,  as  Heaven  and  Hell. 

1  know  the  Table  Round,  my  friends  of  old ; 
All  brave,  and  many  generous,  and  some  chaste. 
I  think  she  cloaks  the  wounds  of  loss  with  lies; 
I  do  believe  she  tempted  them  and  fail'd, 

She  is  so  bitter :  for  fine  plots  may  fail, 
Tho'  harlots  paint  their  talk  as  well  as  face 
With  colors  of  the  heart  that  are  not  theirs. 
I  will  not  let  her  know :  nine  tithes  of  times 
Face-flatterers  and  backbiters  are  the  same. 
And  they,  sweet  soul,  that  most  impute  a  crime 
Are  pronest  to  it,  and  impute  themselves. 
Wanting  the  mental  rage;  or  low  desire 
Not  to  feel  lowest  makes  them  level  all: 


VIVIEN.  645 


Yea,  they  would  pare  the  mountain  to  the  plain, 
To  leave  an  equal  haseness;  and  in  this 
Are  harlots  like  the  crowd,  that  if  they  find 
Some  stain  or  blemish  in  a  name  of  note, 
Not  grieving  that  their  greatest  are  so  small, 
Inflate  themselves  with  some  insane  delight, 
And  judge  all  nature  from  her  feet  of  clay, 
Without  the  will  to  lift  their  eyes,  and  see 
Her  godlike  head  crown'd  with  spiritual  lire, 
And  touching  other  worlds.     1  am  weary  of  her." 

He  spoke  in  words  part  heard,  in  whispers  part, 
Half-suffocated  in  the  hoary  fell 
And  many-winter'd  fleece  of  throat  and  chin. 
But  Vivien,  gathering  somewhat  of  his  mood, 
And  hearing  "  harlot  "  mutter'd  twice  or  thrice, 
Leapt  from  her  session  on  his  lap,  and  stood 
Stiff  as  a  viper  frozen:  loathsome  sight, 
How  from  the  rosy  lips  of  life  and  love, 
riash'd  the  bare-grinning  skeleton  of  death! 
White  was  her  cheek;   sharp  breaths  of  anger  pufFd 
Her  fairy  nostril  out;  her  hand  half-clench'd 
Went  faltering  sideways  downward  to  her  belt, 
And  feeling;  had  she  found  a  dagger  there 
(For  in  a  wink  the  false  love  turns  to  hate) 
She  would  have  stabb'd  him;  but  she  found  it  not: 
His  eye  was  calm,  and  suddenly  she  took 
To  bitter  weeping  like  a  beaten  child, 
A  long,  long  weeping,  not  consolable. 
Then  her  false  voice  made  way  broken  with  sobs. 

"  O  crueller  than  was  ever  told  in  tale, 
Or  sung  in  Bong!     O  vainly  lavish'd  love! 
O  cruel,  there  was  nothing  wild  or  strange, 
Or  seeming  shameful,  for  what  shame  in  love, 
So  love  be  true,  and  not  as  yours  is — nothing 
Poor  Vivien  had  not  done  to  win  his  trust 
Who  call'd  her  what  he  call'd  her — all  her  crime, 
All — all — the  wish  to  prove  him  wholly  hers." 

She  mused  a  little,  and  then  clapt  her  hands 
Together  with  a  wailing  shriek,  and  said: 
u  Stabb'd  through  the  heart's  affections  to  the  heart! 
Seeth'd  like  the  kid  in  its  own  mother's  milk! 


846  VIVIEN. 


Kill'd  with  a  word  worse  than  a  life  of  blows! 
I  thought  that  he  was  gentle,  being  great: 

0  God,  that  I  had  loved  a  smaller  man! 

1  should  have  found  in  him  a  greater  heart. 
O,  I,  that  flattering  my  true  passion,  saw 

The  knights,  the  court,  the  king,  dark  in  your  light, 

Who  loved  to  make  men  darker  than  they  are, 

Because  of  that  high  pleasure  which  I  had 

To  seat  you  sole  upon  my  pedestal 

Of  worship — I  am  answer'd,  and  henceforth 

The  course  of  life  that  seem'd  so  flowery  to  me 

With  you  for  guide  and  master,  only  you, 

Becomes  the  sea-clifF  pathway  broken  short, 

And  ending  in  a  ruin — nothing  left, 

But  into  some  low  cave  to  crawl,  and  there, 

If  the  wolf  spare  me,  weep  my  life  away, 

Kill'd  with  unutterable  unkindliness." 

She  paused,  she  turn'd  away,  she  hung  her  head. 
The  snake  of  gold  slid  from  her  hair,  the  braid 
Slipt  and  uncoil'd  itself,  she  wept  afresh, 
And  the  dark  wood  grew  darker  toward  the  storm 
In  silence,  while  his  anger  slowly  died 
Within  him,  till  he  let  his  wisdom  go 
For  ease  of  heart,  and  half  believed  her  true: 
Call'd  her  to  shelter  in  the  hollow  oak, 
"  Come  from  the  storm,"  and  having  no  reply, 
Gazed  at  the  heaving  shoulder,  and  the  face 
Hand-hidden,  as  for  utmost  grief  or  shame; 
Then  thrice  essay' d,  by  tenderest-touching  terms 
To  sleek  her  ruffled  peace  of  mind,  in  vain. 
At  last  she  let  herself  be  conquer'd  by  him, 
And  as  the  cageling  newly  flown  returns, 
The  seeming-injured  simple-hearted  thing 
Came  to  her  old  perch  back,  and  settled  there. 
There  while  she  sat,  half-falling  from  his  knees, 
Half-nestled  at  his  heart,  and  since  he  saw 
The  slow  tear  creep  from  her  clos'd  eyelid  yet, 
About  her,  more  in  kindness  than  in  love, 
The  gentle  wizard  cast  a  shielding  arm. 
But  she  dislink'd  herself  at  once  and  rose, 
Her  arms  upon  her  breast  across,  and  stood 
A  virtuous  gentlewoman  deeply  wrong'd, 
Upright  and  flush'd  before  him;  then  she  said: 


vivien.  647 


"  There  must  be  now  no  passages  of  love 
Betwixt  us  twain  henceforward  evermore. 
Since,  if  I  be  what  I  am  grossly  call'd, 
What  should  be  granted  which  your  own  gross  heart 
Would  reckon  worth  the  taking?     I  will  go. 
In  truth,  bat  one  thing  now — better  have  died 
Thrice  than  have  ask'd  it  once — could  make  me  stay — 
That  proof  of  trust — so  often  asked  in  vain! 
How  justly,  after  that  vile  term  of  yours, 
I  find  with  grief  1     I  might  believe  you  then, 
Who  knows?  once  more.     O,  what  was  once  to  me 
Mere  matter  of  the  fancy,  now  has  grown 
The  vast  necessity  of  heart  and  life. 
Farewell:  think  kindly  of  me,  for  I  fear 
My  fate  or  fault,  omitting  gayer  youth 
For  one  so  old,  must  be  to  love  you  still. 
But  ere  I  leave  you  let  me  swear  once  more 
That  if  I  schemed  against  your  peace  in  this, 
May  yon  just  heaven,  that  darkens  o'er  me,  send 
One  flash,  that,  missing  all  things  else,  may  make 
My  scheming  brain  a  cinder,  if  I  lie." 

Scarce  had  she  ceased,  when  out  of  heaven  a  bolt 
(For  now  the  storm  was  close  above  them)  struck, 
Furrowing  a  giant  oak,  and  javelining 
With  darted  spikes  and  splinters  of  the  wood 
The  dark  earth  round.     He  raised  his  eyes  and  saw 
The  tree  that  shone  white-listed  thro'  the  gloom. 
But  Vivien,  fearing  heaven  had  heard  her  oath, 
And  dazzled  by  the  livid-flickering  fork, 
And  deafen'd  with  the  stammering  cracks  and  claps 
That  followed,  flying  back  and  crying  out, 
"  O  Merlin,  tho'  you  do  not  love  me,  save, 
Yet  save  me!"  clung  to  him  and  hugg'd  him  close: 
And  calPd  him  dear  protector  in  her  fright, 
Nor  yet  forgot  her  practice  in  her  fright, 
But  wrought  upon  his  mood  and  huggM  him  close. 
The  pale  blood  of  the  wizard  at  her  touch 
Took  gayer  colors,  like  an  opal  warm'd 
She  blamed  herself  for  telling  hearsay  tales: 
She  shook  from  fear,  and  for  her  fault  she  wept 
Of  petulancy;  she  call'd  him  lord  and  liege, 
Her  seer,  her  bard,  her  silver  star  of  eve, 
Her  God,  her  Merlin,  the  one  passionate  love 


648  VIVIEN, 


Of  her  whole  life ;  and  ever  overhead 

Beilow'd  the  tempest,  and  the  rotten  branch 

Snapt  in  the  rushing  of  the  river-rain 

Above  them;  and  in  change  of  glare  and  gloom 

Her  eyes  and  neck  glittering  went  and  came; 

Till  now  the  storm,  its  burst  of  passion  spent, 

Moaning  and  calling  out  of  other  lands, 

Had  left  the  ravaged  woodland  yet  once  more 

To  peace;  and  what  should  not  have  been  had  been, 

For  Merlin,  overtalk'd  and  overworn, 

Had  yielded,  told  her  all  the  charm,  and  slept. 

• 
Then,  in  one  moment,  she  put  forth  the  charm 

Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands, 

And  in  the  hollow  oak  he  lay  as  dead, 

And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and  fame. 

Then  crying  "  I  have  made  his  glory  mine," 
And  shrieking  out  "  O  fool ! "  the  harlot  leapt 
Adown  the  forest,  and  the  thicket  closed 
Behind  her,  and  the  forest  echo'd  "  fool." 


BLAINE, 


649 


LAINE  the  fair,  Elaine  the  ioval  -x 
Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat, 
High  in  her  chamber  up  a  tower  to  the  easl 

Guarded  the  sacred  shield  of  Lancelot; 

Which  first  she  placed  where  morning's  earliest  ray 

Might  strike  it,  and  awake  her  with  the  gleam  ; 

Then  fearing  rust  or  soilure,  fashion'd  for  it 
A  case  of  silk,  and  braided  thereupon 
All  the  devices  blazon'd  on  the  shield 
In  their  own  tinct,  and  added,  of  her  wit, 
A  border  fantasy  of  branch  and  flower, 
And  yellow-throated  nestling  in  the  nest. 
Nor  rested  thus  content,  but  day  by  day 
Leaving  her  household  and  good  father  climb'd 
That  eastern  tower,  and  entering  barr'd  her  door, 
Stript  off  the  case,  and  read  the  naked  shield, 
Now  guess'd  a  hidden  meaning  in  his  arms, 
Now  made  a  pretty  history  to  herself 
Of  every  dint  a  sword  had  beaten  in  it, 
And  every  scratch  a  lance  had  made  upon  it, 
Conjecturing  when  and  where:  this  cut  is  fresh; 
That  ten  years  back;  this  dealt  him  at  Caerlyle; 
That  at  Caerleon;  this  at  Camclot: 
And  ah,  God's  mercy,  what  a  stroke  was  there! 
And  here  a  thrust  that  might  have  killM,  but  God 
Broke  the  strong  lance,  and  roll'd  his  enemy  down, 
And  saved  him:  so  she  lived  in  fantasy. 


How  came  the  lily  maid  by  that  good  shield 
Of  Lancelot,  she  that  knew  not  ev'n  his  name? 
He  left  it  with  her,  when  he  rode  to  tilt 
For  the  great  diamond  in  the  diamond  jousts, 
Which  Arthur  had  ordain'd,  and  by  that  name 
Had  named  them,  since  a  diamond  was  the  prize, 


For  Arthur  when  none  knew  from  whence  he  came, 
Long  ere  the  people  chose  him  for  their  king, 


850  ELAINE. 


Roving  the  trackless  realms  of  Lyonnesse, 

Had  found  a  glen,  gray  boulder  and  black  tarn. 

A  horror  lived  about  the  tarn,  and  clave 

Like  its  own  mists  to  all  the  monntain  side: 

For  here  two  brothers,  one  a  king,  had  met 

And  fought  together:  but  their  names  were  lost. 

And  each  had  slain  his  brother  at  a  blow, 

And  down  they  fell  and  made  the  glen  abhorr'd: 

And  there  they  lay  till  all  their  bones  were  bleach'd, 

And  lichen'd  into  color  with  the  crags : 

And  he  that  once  was  king  had  on  a  crown 

Of  diamonds,  one  in  front,  and  four  aside. 

And  Arthur  came,  and  laboring  up  the  pass 

All  in  a  misty  moonshine,  unawares 

Had  trodden  that  crown'd  skeleton,  and  the  skull 

Brake  from  the  nape,  and  from  the  skull  the  crown 

Roil'd  into  light,  and  turning  on  its  rims 

Fled  like  a  glittering  rivulet  to  the  tarn: 

And  down  the  shingly  scaur  he  plunged,  and  caught, 

And  set  it  on  his  head,  and  in  his  heart 

Heard  murmurs,  "  Lo,  thou  likewise  shalt  be  king." 

Thereafter,  when  a  king,  he  had  the  gems 
Pluck'd  from  the  crown,  and  show'd  them  to  his  knights, 
Saying  "  These  jewels,  whereupon  I  chanced 
Divinely,  are  the  kingdom's,  not  the  king's — 
For  public  use:  henceforward  let  there  be, 
Once  every  year,  a  joust  for  one  of  these: 
For  so  by  nine  years'  proof  we  needs  must  learn 
Which  is  our  mightiest,  and  ourselves  shall  grow 
In  use  of  arms  and  manhood,  till  we  drive 
The  Heathen,  who,  some  say,  shall  rule  the  land 
Hereafter,  which  God  hinder."     Thus, he  spoke: 
And  eight  years  past,  eight  jousts  had  been,  and  still 
Had  Lancelot  won  the  diamond  of  the  year, 
With  purpose  to  present  them  to  the  Queen, 
When  all  were  won:  but  meaning  all  at  once 
To  snare  her  royal  fancy  with  a  boon 
Worth  half  her  realm,  had  never  spoken  word. 

Now  for  the  central  diamond  and  the  last 
And  largest,  Arthur,  holding  then  his  court 
Hard  on  the  river  nigh  the  place  which  now 
Is  this  world's  hugest,  let  proclaim  a  joust 


ELAINE.  6frl 


At  Camelot,  and  when  the  time  drew  nigh 

Spake  (for  she  had  been  sick)  to  Guinevere, 

"Are  you  so  sick,  my  Queen,  you  cannot  move 

To  these  fair  jousts?  "    "  Yea,  lord,"  she  said,  "you  know  it" 

"  Then  will  you  miss,"  he  answer'd,  "  the  great  deeds 

Of  Lancelot,  and  his  prowess  in  the  lists, 

A  sight  you  love  to  look  on."     And  the  Queen 

Lifted  her  eyes,  and  they  dwelt  languidly 

On  Lancelot,  where  he  stood  beside  the  King. 

He  thinking  that  he  read  her  meaning  there, 

"  Stay  with  me,  I  am  sick;  my  love  is  more 

Than  many  diamonds,"  yielded,  and  a  heart, 

Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen 

(However  much  he  yearn'd  to  make  complete 

The  tale  of  diamonds  for  his  destined  boon) 

Urged  him  to  speak  against  the  truth,  and  say 

"Sir  King,  mine  ancient  wound  is  hardly  whole, 

And  lets  me  from  the  saddle;"   and  the  King 

Glanced  first  at  him,  then  her,  and  went  his  way. 

No  sooner  gone  than  suddenly  she  began: 

"  To  blame,  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot  much  to  blame. 
Why  go  you  not  to  these  fair  jousts?  the  knights 
Are  half  of  them  our  enemies,  and  the  crowd 
Will  murmur,  lo  the  shameless  ones,  who  take 
Their  pastime  now  the  trustful  king  is  gone!" 
Then  Lancelot,  vexed  at  having  lied  in  vain: 
"  Are  you  so  wise  ?  you  were  not  once  so  wise, 
My  Queen,  that  summer,  when  you  loved  me  first. 
Then  of  the  crowd  you  took  no  more  account 
Than  of  the  myriad  cricket  of  the  mead, 
When  its  own  voice  clings  to  each  blade  of  grass, 
And  every  voice  is  nothing.     As  to  knights, 
Them  surely  can  I  silence  with  all  ease. 
But  now  my  loyal  worship  is  allow'd 
Of  all  men:  many  a  bard,  without  offence, 
Has  link'd  our  names  together  in  his  lay, 
Lancelot,  the  flower  of  bravery,  Guinevere, 
The  pearl  of  beauty :   and  our  knights  at  feast 
Have  pledged  us  in  this  union,  while  the  King 
Would  listen  smiling.     How  then?  is  there  more? 
Has  Arthur  spoken  aught?  or  would  yourself, 
Now  weary  of  my  service  and  devoir, 
Henceforth  be  truer  to  your  faultless  lord  ?  " 


652  ELAINE. 


She  broke  into  a  little  scornful  laugh. 
"Arthur,  my  lord,  Arthur,  the  faultless  King, 
That  passionate  perfection,  my  good  lord — 
But  who  can  gaze  upon  the  Sun  in  heaven  ? 
He  never  spake  word  of  reproach  to  me, 
He  never  had  a  glimpse  of  mine  untruth, 
He  cares  not  for  me :  only  here  to-day 
There  gleam'd  a  vague  suspicion  in  his  eyes; 
Some  meddling  rogue  has  tamper'd  with  him — else 
Rapt  in  his  fancy  of  his  Table  Round, 
And  swearing  men  to  vows  impossible, 
To  make  them  like  himself;  but,  friend,  to  me 
He  is  all  fault  who  hath  no  fault  at  all : 
For  who  loves  me  must  have  a  touch  of  earth; 
The  low  sun  makes  the  color;  I  am  yours, 
Not  Arthur's,  as  you  know,  save  by  the  bond, 
And  therefore  hear  my  words:  go  to  the  jousts: 
The  tiny-trumpeting  gnat  can  break  our  dream 
When  sweetest;  and  the  vermin  voices  here 
May  buzz  so  loud — we  scorn  them,  but  they  sting." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of  knights, 
"And  with  what  face,  after  my  pretext  made, 
Shall  I  appear,  O  Queen,  at  Camelot,  I 
Before  a  king  who  honors  his  own  word, 
As  if  it  were  his  God's?  " 

"Yea,"  said  the  Queen, 
"A  moral  child  without  the  craft  to  rule, 
Else  had  he  not  lost  me:  but  listen  to  me, 
If  I  must  find  you  wit:  we  hear  it  said 
That  men  go  down  before  your  spear  at  a  touch 
But  knowing  you  are  Lancelot;  your  great  name, 
This  conquers:  hide  it  therefore;  go  unknown: 
Win!  by  this  kiss  you  will:  and  our  true  king 
Will  then  allow  your  pretext,  O  my  knight, 
As  all  for  glory ;  for  to  speak  him  true, 
You  know  right  well,  how  meek  so  e'er  he  seem, 
No  keener  hunter  after  glory  breathes. 
He  loves  it  in  his  knights  more  than  himself: 
They  prove  to  him  his  work:  win  and  return." 

Then  got  Sir  Lancelot  suddenly  to  horse, 
Wroth  at  himself:  not  willing  to  be  known, 
He  left  the  barren-beaten  thoroughfare, 


ELAINE.  658 


Chose  the  green  path  that  show'd  the  rarer  foot, 

And  there  among  the  solitary  downs, 

Full  often  lost  in  fancy,  lost  his  way; 

Till  as  he  traced  a  faintly-shadow'd  track, 

That  all  in  loops  and  links  among  the  dales 

Ran  to  the  Castle  of  Astolat,  he  saw 

Fired  from  the  west,  far  on  a  hill,  the  towers. 

Thither  he  made  and  wound  the  gate-way  horn, 

Then  came  an  old,  dumb,  myriad-wrinkled  man, 

Who  let  him  into  lodging  and  disarm'd. 

And  Lancelot  marvell'd  at  the  wordless  man; 

And  issuing  found  the  Lord  of  Astolat 

With  two  strong  sons,  Sir  Torre  and  Sir  Lavaine, 

Moving  to  meet  him  in  the  castle  court; 

And  close  behind  them  stept  the  lily  maid 

Elaine,  his  daughter:  mother  of  the  house 

There  was  not:  some  light  jest  among  them  rose 

With  laughter  dying  down  as  the  great  knight 

Approach'd  them:  then  the  lord  of  Astolat, 

"Whence  comest  thou,  my  guest,  and  by  what  name 

Li  vest  between  the  lips?  for  by  thy  state 

And  presence  I  might  guess  thee  chief  of  those, 

After  the  king,  who  eat  in  Arthur's  halls. 

Him  have  I  seen:  the  rest,  his  Table  Round, 

Known  as  they  are,  to  me  they  are  unknown." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of  knights, 
"  Known  am  I,  and  of  Arthur's  hall,  and  known, 
What  I  by  mere  mischance  have  brought,  my  shield. 
But  since  I  go  to  joust  as  one  unknown 
At  Camelot  for  the  diamond,  ask  me  not; 
Hereafter  you  shall  know  me — and  the  shield — 
I  pray  you  lend  me  one,  if  such  you  have, 
Blank,  or  at  least  with  some  device  not  mine." 

Then  said  the  Lord  of  Astolat, "  Here  is  Torre's: 
Hurt  in  his  first  tilt  was  my  son,  Sir  Torre. 
And,  so,  God  wot,  his  shield  is  blank  enough. 
His  you  can  have."  Then  added  plain  Sir  Torre, 
u  Yea  since  I  cannot  use  it,  you  may  have  it." 
Here  laugh'd  the  father,  saying,  "  Fie,  Sir  Churl, 
Is  that  an  answer  for  a  noble  knight? 
Allow  him:  but  Lavaine  my  younger  here, 
He  is  so  full  of  lustihood,  he  will  ride 


654  BLAINE. 


Joust  for  it,  and  win,  and  bring  it  in  an  hour 
And  set  it  in  this  damsel's  golden  hair 
To  make  her  thrice  as  wilful  as  before." 

"  Nay,  father,  nay,  good  father,  shame  me  not 
Before  this  noble  knight,"  said  young  Lavaine, 
"  For  nothing.     Surely  I  but  play'd  on  Torre: 
He  seem'd  so  sullen,  vext  he  could  not  go : 
A  jest,  no  more:  for,  knight,  the  maiden  dreamt 
That  some  one  put  this  diamond  in  her  hand, 
And  that  it  was  too  slippery  to  be  held, 
And  slipt  and  fell  into  some  pool  or  stream, 
The  castle-well,  belike:  and  then  I  said 
That  if  I  went  and  if  I  fought  and  won  it 
(But  all  was  jest  and  joke  among  ourselves) 
Then  must  she  keep  it  safelier.     All  was  jest. 
But  father  give  me  leave,  an  if  he  will, 
To  ride  to  Camelot  with  this  noble  knight: 
Win  shall  I  not,  but  do  my  best  to  win : 
Young  as  I  am,  yet  would  I  do  my  best." 

"  So  you  will  grace  me,"  answer'*!  Lancelot, 
Smiling  a  moment,  "  with  your  fellowship 
O'er  these  waste  downs  whereon  I  lost  myself, 
Then  were  I  glad  of  you  as  guide  and  friend; 
And  you  shall  win  this  diamond — as  I  hear,  • 

It  is  a  fair  large  diamond, — if  you  may, 
And  yield  it  to  this  maiden,  if  you  will." 
"  A  fair  large  diamond,"  added  plain  Sir  Torre, 
"  Such  be  for  Queens  and  not  for  simple  maids." 
Then  she,  who  held  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
Elaine,  and  heard  her  name  so  tost  about, 
Flush'd  slightly  at  the  slight  disparagement 
Before  the  stranger  knight,  who,  looking  at  her, 
Full  courtly,  yet  not  falsely,  thus  return'd : 
"  If  what  is  fair  be  but  for  what  is  fair, 
And  only  Queens  are  to  be  counted  so, 
Rash  were  my  judgment  then,  who  deem  this  maid 
Might  wear  as  fair  a  jewel  as  is  on  earth, 
Not  violating  the  bond  of  like  to  like." 

He  spoke  and  ceased:  the  lily  maid  Elaine, 
Won  by  the  mellow  voice  before  she  look'd, 
Lifted  her  eyes,  and  read  his  lineaments. 


ELAINE.  655 


The  great  and  guilty  love  he  bare  the  Queen, 

In  battle  with  the  love  he  bare  his  lord, 

Had  marrM  his  face,  and  mark'd  it  ere  his  time. 

Another  sinning  on  such  heights  with  one, 

The  flower  of  all  the  west  and  all  the  world, 

Had  been  the  sleeker  for  it:  but  in  him 

His  mood  was  often  like  a  fiend,  and  rose 

And  drove  him  into  wastes  and  solitudes 

For  agony,  who  was  yet  a  living  soul. 

MarrM  as  he  was,  he  seem'd  the  goodliest  man 

That  ever  among  ladies  ate  in  Hall, 

And  noblest,  when  she  lifted  up  her  eyes. 

However  marrM,  of  more  than  t\\  ice  her  years, 

Seam'd  with  an  ancient  swordcut  on  the  cheek, 

And  bruised  and  bronzed,  she  lifted  up  her  I 

And  loved  him,  with  that  love  which  was  her  doom. 

Then  the  great  knight,  the  darling  of  the  court, 
Loved  of  the  loveliest,  into  that  rude  hall 
Stept  with  all  grace,  and  not  with  half  disdain 
Hid  under  grace,  as  in  a  smaller  time, 
But  kindly  man  moving  among  his  kind; 
Whom  they  with  meats  and  vintage  of  their  best 
And  talk  and  minstrel  melody  entertainM. 
And  much  they  askM  of  court  and  Table  Round, 
And  ever  well  and  readily  answeiM  he: 
But  Lancelot,  when  they  glanced  at  Guinevere, 
Suddenly  speaking  of  the  wordless  man, 
Heard  from  the  Baron  that,  ten  years  before, 
The  heathen  caught  and  reft  him  of  his  tongue, 
u  lie  learnt  and  warnM  me  of  their  fierce  design 
Against  my  house,  and  him  they  caught  and  maimM: 
But  I,  my  sons,  and  little  daughter  fled 
From  bonds  or  death,  and  dwelt  among  the  woods 
By  the  great  river  in  a  boatman's  hut. 
Dull  days  were  those,  till  our  good  Arthur  broke 
The  Pagan  yet  once  more  on  Badon  hill." 

"  O  there,  good  Lord,  doubtless,"  Lavaine  said,  rapt 
By  all  the  sweet  and  sudden  passion  of  youth 
Toward  greatness  in  its  elder,  "  you  have  fought. 
O  tell  us;  for  we  live  apart,  you  know: 
Of  Arthur's  glorious  wars."     And  Lancelot  spoke 
And  answerM  him  at  full,  as  having  been 


656  ELAINE. 


With  Arthur  in  the  fight  which  all  day  long 

Rang  by  the  white  mouth  of  the  violent  Glem ; 

And  in  the  four  wild  battles  by  the  shore 

Of  Duglas;  that  on  Bassa;  then  the  war 

That  thunder'd  in  and  out  the  gloomy  skirts 

Of  Celidon  the  forest;  and  again 

By  castle  Gurnion,  where  the  glorious  King 

Had  on  his  cuirass  worn  our  Lady's  Head, 

Carved  of  one  emerald,  centered  in  a  sun 

Of  silver  rays,  that  lighten'd  as  he  breathed; 

And  at  Caerleon  had  he  help'd  his  lord, 

When  the  strong  neighings  of  the  wild  white  Horse 

Set  every  gilded  parapet  shuddering; 

And  up  in  Agned  Cathregonion  too, 

And  down  the  waste  sand -shores  of  Trath  Treroit, 

Where  many  a  heathen  fell;  "and  on  the  mount 

Of  Badon  I  myself  beheld  the  King 

Charge  at  the  head  of  all  his  Table  Round, 

And  all  his  legions  crying  Christ  and  him, 

And  break  them;  and  I  saw  him,  afterstand 

High  on  a  heap  of  slain,  from  spur  to  plume 

Red  as  the  rising  sun  with  heathen  blood, 

And  seeing  me,  with  a  great  voice  he  cried, 

*  They  are  broken,  they  are  broken,'  for  the  King, 

However  mild  he  seems  at  home,  nor  cares 

For  triumph  in  our  mimic  wars,  the  jousts — 

For  if  his  own  knight  cast  him  down,  he  laughs 

Saying,  his  knights  are  better  men  than  he — 

Yet  in  this  heathen  war  the  fire  of  God 

Fills  him ;  I  never  saw  his  like ;  there  lives 

No  greater  leader." 

While  he  utter'd  this, 
Low  to  her  own  heart  said  the  lily  maid, 
"  Save  your  great  self,  fair  lord;"   and  when  he  fell 
From  talk  of  war  to  traits  of  pleasantry 
Being  mirthful  he  but  in  a  stately  kind — 
She  still  took  note  that  when  the  living  smile 
Died  from  his  lips,  across  him  came  a  cloud 
Of  melancholy  severe,  from  which  again, 
Whenever  in  her  hovering  to  and  fro 
The  lily  maid  had  striven  to  make  him  cheer, 
There  brake  a  sudden-beaming  tenderness 
Of  manners  and  of  nature:  and  she  thought 
That  all  was  nature,  all,  perchance,  for  her, 
And  all  night  long  his  face  before  her  lived, 


ELA1XE.  657 


As  when  a  painter,  poring  on  a  face, 

Divinely  thro'  all    hindrance   finds  the  man 

Behind  it,  and  so  paints  him  that  his  face, 

The  shape  and  color  of  a  mind  and  life, 

Lives  for  his  children,  ever  at  its  best 

And  fullest;  so  the  face  before  her  lived, 

Dark-splendid,  speaking  in  the  silence,  full 

Of  noble  things,  and  held  her  from  her  sleep. 

Till  rathe  she  rose,  half-cheated  in  the  thought 

She  needs  must  bid  farewell  to  sweel  Lavaine. 

First  as  in  fear,  step  after  step,  she  stole, 

Down  the  long  tower-stairs,  hesitating: 

Anon,  she  heard  Sir  Lancelot  cry  in  the  court, 

"This  shield,  my  friend,  where  is  it?  "  and  Lavaine 

Past  inward,  as  she  came  from  out  the  tower. 

There  to  his  proud  horse  Lancelot  turn'd,  and  smoothM 

The  glossy  shoulder,  humming  to  himself. 

Half-envious  of  the  flattering  hand,  she  drew 

Nearer  and  stood.     He  look'd,  and  more  amazed 

Than  if  seven  men  had  set  upon  him,  saw 

The  maiden  standing  in  the  dewy  light. 

He  had  not  dreamed  she  was  so  beautiful. 

Then  came  on  him  a  sort  of  sacred  fear, 

For  silent,  tho'  he  greeted  her,  she  stood 

Rapt  on  his  face  as  if  it  were  a  God's. 

Suddenly  flashed  on  her  a  wild  desire, 

That  he  should  wear  her  favor  at  the  tilt. 

She  braved  a  riotous  heart  in  asking  for  it. 

"  Fair  lord,  whose  name  I  know  not — noble  it  is, 

I  well  believe,  the  noblest — will  you  wear 

My  favor  at  this  tourney  ?  "     "  Nay,"  said  he, 

"  Fair  lady,  since  I  never  yet  have  worn 

Favor  of  any  lady  id  the  li-ts. 

Such  is  my  wont,  as  those,  who  know  me,  know." 

"  Yea,  so,"  she  answer'd;  "then  in  wearing  mine 

Needs  must  be  lesser  likelihood,  noble  lord, 

That  those  who  know  should  know  you."     And  he  turn'd 

Her  counsel  up  and  down  within  his  mind, 

And  found  it  true,  and  answer'd,  "  True,  my  child. 

Well,  I  will  wear  it:  fetch  it  out  to  me: 

What  is  it  ?  "  and  she  told  him  "  a  red  sleeve 

Broider'd  with  pearls,"  and  brought'it:  then  he  bound 

Her  token  on  his  helmet,  with  a  smile 

Saying,  "  I  never  yet  have  done  so  much 

For  any  maiden  living,"  and  the  blood 


42 


658  ELAINE. 


Sprang  to  her  face,  and  fill'd  her  with  delight; 

But  left  her  all  the  paler,  when  Lavaine 

Returning  brought  the  yet  unblazon'd  shield, 

His  brother's;  which  he  gave  to  Lancelot, 

Who  parted  with  his  own  ro  fair  Elaine; 

"  Do  me  this  grace,  my  child,  to  have  my  shield 

In  keeping  till  I  come.*'     "A  grace  to  me," 

She  answer'd,  "  twice  to-day.  I  am  your  Squire." 

Whereat  Lavaine  said,  laughing,  "  Lily  maid, 

For  fear  our  people  call  you  lily  maid 

In  earnest,  let  me  bring  your  color  back; 

Once,  twice,  and  thrice:  now  get  you  hence  to  bed: 

So  kiss'd  her,  and  Sir  Lancelot  his  own  hand, 

And  thus  they  moved  away:  she  stay'd  a  minute, 

Then  made  a  sudden  step  to  the  gate,  and  there — 

Her  bright  hair  blown  about  the  serious  face 

Yet  rosy-kindled  with  her  brother's  kiss — 

Paused  in  the  gateway,  standing  by  the  shield 

In  silence,  while  she  watch'd  their  arms  far  off 

Sparkle,  until  they  dipt  below  the  downs. 

Then  to  her  tower  she  climb'd,  and  took  the  shield, 

There  kept  it,  and  so  lived  in  fantasy. 

Meanwhile  the  new  companions  past  away 
Far  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless  downs, 
To  where  Sir  Lancelot  knew  there  lived  a  knight 
Not  far  from  Camelot,  now  for  forty  years 
A  hermit,  who  had  pray'd,  labor'd  and  pray'd 
And  ever  laboring  had  scoop'd  himself 
In  the  white  rock  a  chapel  and  a  hall 
On  massive  columns,  like  a  shoreclifF  cave, 
And  cells  and  chambers:  all  were  fair  and  dry; 
The  green  light  from  the  meadows  underneath 
Struck  up  and  lived  along  the  milky  roofs; 
And  in  the  meadows  tremulous  aspen-trees. 
And  poplars  made  a  noise  of  falling  showers. 
And  thither  wending  there  that  night  they  bode. 

But  when  the  next  day  broke  from  underground, 
And  shot  red  fire  and  shadows  thro'  the  cave, 
They  rose,  heard  mass,  broke  fast,  and  rode  away : 
Then  Lancelot  saying,  "  Hear,  but  hold  my  name 
Hidden,  you  ride  with  Lancelot  of  the  Lake." 
Abashed  Lavaine,  whose  instant  reverence, 


ELAINE.  659 


Dearer  to  true  younig  hearts  than  their  own  praise, 
But  left  him  leave  to  stammer,  "  Is  it  indeed?  " 
And  after  muttering  "the  great  Lancelot" 
At  last  he  got  his  breath  and  answer'd,    "  One, 
One  have  I  seen — that  other,  our  liege  lord, 
The  dread  Pendragon,  Britain's  king  of  kings, 
Of  whom  the  people  talk  mysteriously, 
He  will  be  there — then  were  I  stricken  blind 
That  minute,  I  might  say  that  I  had  seen." 

So  spake  Lavaine,  and  when  they  reach'd  the  lists 
By  Camelot  in  the  meadow,  let  his  eyes 
Run  thro'  the  peopled  gallery  which  half  round 
Lay  like  a  rainbow  fall'n  upon  the  grass, 
Until  they  found  the  clear-faced  King,  who  sat 
Robed  in  red  samite,  easily  to  be  known, 
Since  to  his  crown  the  golden  dragon  clung, 
And  down  his  robe  the  dragon  writhed  in  gold, 
And  from  the  carven-work  behind  him  crept 
Two  dragons  gilded,  sloping  down  to  make 
Arms  for  his  chair,  while  all  the  rest  of  them 
Thro'  knots  and  loops  and  folds  innumerable 
Fled  ever  thro'  the  woodwork,  till  they  found 
The  new  design  wherein  they  lost  themselves, 
Yet  with  all  ease,  so  tender  was  the  work: 
And  in  the  costly  canopy  o'er  him  set, 
Blazed  the  last  diamond  of  the  nameless  king. 

Then  Lancelot  answer'd   young  Lavaine  and  said, 
"  Me  you  call  great:  mine  is  the  firmer 
The  truer  lance:  but  there  is  many  a  youth 
Now  crescent,  who  will  come  to  all  1  am 
And  overcome  it;  and  in  me  there  dwells 
No  greatness,  save  it  be  some  far-o#ff  touch 
Of  greatness  to  know  well  I  am  not  great : 
There  is  the  man."     And  Lavaine  gaped  upon  him 
As  on  a  thing  miraculous,  and   anon 
The  trumpets  blew;  and  then  did  either  side, 
They  that  assailed,  and  they  that  held  the  lists, 
Set  lance  in  rest,  strike  spur,  suddenly  move, 
Meet  in  the  midst,  and  there  so  furiously 
Shock,  that  a  man  far-off  might  well  perceive, 
If  any  man  that  day  were  left  afield, 
The  hard  earth  shake,  and  a  low  thunder  of  arms. 


660  ELAINE. 


And  Lancelot  bode  a  little,  till  he  saw 
Which  were  the  weaker:  then  he  hurl'd  into  it 
Against  the  stronger:  little  need  to  speak 
Of  Lancelot  in  his  glory :  King,  duke,  earl, 
Count,  baron — whom  he  smote,  he  overthrew. 

But  in  the  field  were  Lancelot's  kith  and  kin, 
Ranged  with  the  Table  Round  that  held  the  lists, 
Strong  men,  and  wrathful  that  a  stranger  knight 
Should  do  and  almost  overdo  the  deeds 
Of  Lancelot;  and  one  said  to  the  other,  "  Lo! 
What  is  he?     I  do  not  mean  the  force  alone, 
The  grace  and  versatility  of  the  man — 
Is  it  not  Lancelot !  "     "  When  has  Lancelot  worn 
Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists? 
Not  such  his  wont,  as  we,  that  know  him,  know." 
"How  then?  who  then?"  a  fury  seized  on  them, 
A  fiery  family  passion  for  the  name 
Of  Lancelot,  and  a  glory  one  with  theirs. 
They  couch'd  their  spears  and  prick'd  their  steeds  and  thus, 
Their  plumes  driv'n  backward  by  the  wind  they  made 
In  moving,  all  together  down  upon  him 
Bare,  as  a  wild  wave  in  the  wild  North  sea, 
Green-glimmering  toward  the  summit,  bears,  with  all 
Its  stormy  crests  that  smote  against  the  skies, 
Down  on  a  bark,  and  overbears  the  bark, 
And  him  that  helms  it,  so  they  overbore 
Sir  Lancelot  and  his  charger,  and  a  spear 
Down-glancing  lamed  the  charger,  and  a  spear 
Prick'd  sharply  his  own  cuirass,  and  the  head 
Pierced  thro'  his  side,  and  there  snapt,  and  remain'd. 

Then  Sir  Lavaine  did  well  and  worshipf ully ; 
He  bore  a  knight  of  old  repute  to  the  earth, 
And  brought  his  horse  to  Lancelot  where  he  lay. 
He  up  the  side,  sweating  with  agony,  got, 
But  thought  to  do  while  he  might  yet  endure 
And  being  lustily  holpen  by  the  rest, 
His  party, — tho'  it  seemed  half-miracle 
To  those  he  fought  wTith — drave  his  kith  and  kin, 
And  all  the  Table  Round  that  held  the  lists, 
Back  to  the  barrier;  then  the  heralds  blew 
Proclaiming  his  the  prize,  who  wore  the  sleeve 
Of  scarlet,  and  the  pearls;  and  all  the  knights, 


ELAINE.  661 

— 

Hifi  party,  cried  "  Advance,  and  take  your  prize 
The  diamond;"  but  he  answer'd,  "  Diamond  me 
No  diamonds!  for  God's  love,  a  little  air! 
Prize  me  no  prizes,  for  my  prize  is  death! 
Hence  will  I  and  I  charge  you,  follow  me  not." 

He  spoke,  and  vanish'd  suddenly  from  the  field 
With  young  Lavaine  into  the  poplar  grove. 
There  from  his  charger  down  he  slid,  and  sat, 
Gasping  to  Sir  Lavaine,  *  Draw  the  lance-head : " 
"  Ah,  my  sweet  lord,  Sir  Lancelot,"  said  Lavaine, 
"  I  dread  me,  if  I  draw  it,  you  will  die." 
But  he,  "  I  die  already  with  it:  draw — 
Draw  " — and  Lavaine  drew,  and  that  other  gave      » 
A  marvellous  great  shriek  and  ghastly  groan, 
And  half  his  blood  burst  forth,  and  down  he  sank 
For  the  pure  pain,  and  wholly  swoon'd  awnv. 
Then  came  the  hermit  out  and  bare  him  in, 
There  stanch'd  his  wound;  and  there,  in  daily  doubt 
Whether  to  live  or  die,  for  many  a  week 
Hid  from  the  wide  world's  rumor  by  the  grove 
Of  poplars  with  their  noise  of  falling  showers, 
And  ever-tremulous  aspen-trees,  he  lay. 

But  on  that  day  when  Lancelot  fled  the  lists, 
His  party,  knights  of  utmost  North  and  Wettj 
Lords  of  waste  marshes,  kings  of  desolate  isles, 
Came  round  their  great  Pendragon,  saying  to  him, 
"  Lo,  Sire,  our  knight  thro'  whom  we  won  the  day 
Hath  gone  sore  wounded,  and  hath  left  his  prize 
Untaken,  crying  that  his  prize  is  death." 
"  Heaven  hinder,"  said  the  King,  "  that  such  an  one, 
So  great  a  knight  as  we  have  seen  to-day — 
He  seem'd  to  me  another  Lancelot — 
Yea,  twenty  times  I  thought  him  Lancelot — 
He  must  not  pass  uncared  for.     Gaw  ain,  rise, 
My  nephew,  and  ride  forth  and  find  the  knight. 
Wounded  and  wearied,  needs  must  he  be  near. 
I  charge  you  that  you  get  at  once  to  horse. 
And,  knights  and  kings,  there  breathes  not  one  of  you 
Will  deem  this  prize  of  ours  is  rashly  given: 
His  prowess  was  too  wondrous.     We  will  do  him 
No  customary  honor:  since  the  knight 
Came  not  to  us,  of  us  to  claim  the  prize, 


662  ELAINE. 


Ourselves  will  send  it  after.     Wherefore  take 
This  diamond,  and  deliver  it,  and  return, 
And  bring  us  what  he  is  and  how  he  fares, 
And  cease  not  from  your  quest,  until  you  find." 

So  saying,  from  the  carven  flower  above, 
To  which  it  made  a  restless  heart,  he  took, 
And  gave,  the  diamond:  then  from  where  he  sat 
At  Arthur's  right,  with  smiling  face  arose, 
With  smiling  face  and  frowning  heart,  a  Prince 
In  the  mid  might  and  flourish  of  his  May, 
Gawain,  surnamed  The  Courteous,  fair  and  strong, 
And  after  Lancelot,  Tristram,  and  Geraint 
And  Lamorack,  a  good  knight,  but  therewithal 
Sir  Modred's  brother,  of  a  crafty  house, 
Nor  often  loyal  to  his  word,  and  now 
Wroth  that  the  king's  command  to  sally  forth 
In  quest  of -whom  he  knew  not,  made  him  leave 
The  banquet,  and  concourse  of  knights  and  kings. 

So  all  in  wrath  he  got  to  horse  and  went; 
While  Arthur  to  the  banquet,  dark  in  mood, 
Past,  thinking,  "  Is  it  Lancelot  who  has  come 
Despite  the  wound  he  spake  of,  all  for  gain 
Of  glory,  and  has  added  wound  to  wound, 
And  ridd'n  away  to  die  ?  "     So  feared  the  King, 
And,  after  two  days'  tarriance  there,  return'd. 
Then  when  he  saw  the  Queen,  embracing,  ask'd 
"  Love,  are  you  yet  so  sick?  "     "  Nay,  Lord,"  she  said. 
"And  where  is  Lancelot?"     Then  the  Queen,  amazed, 
"  Was  he  not  with  you?  won  he  not  your  prize? " 
"  Nay,  but  one  like  him."     "  Why  that  like  was  he." 
And  when  the  King  demanded  how  she  knew, 
Said,  "  Lord,  no  sooner  had  you  parted  from  us, 
Than  Lancelot  told  me  of  a  common  talk 
That  men  went  down  before  his  spear  at  a  touch, 
But  knowing  he  was  Lancelot;  his  great  name 
Conauer'd;  and  therefore  would  he  hide  his  name 
From  all  men,  e'en  the  king,  and  to  this  end 
Had  made  the  pretext  of  a  hindering  wound, 
That  he  might  joust  unknown  of  all,  and  learn 
If  his  old  prowess  were  in  aught  decay'd: 
And  added,  c  Our  true  Arthur,  when  he  learns, 
Will  well  allow  my  pretext,  as  for  gain 


BLAINE  ')U< 


Of  purer  glory.' " 

Then  replied  the  King: 
"  Far  lovelier  in  our  Lancelot  had  it  been, 
In  lieu  of  idly  dallying  with  the  truth, 
To  have  trusted  me  as  he  has  trusted  you. 
Surely  his  king  and  most  familiar  friend 
Might  well  have  kept  his  secret.     True,  indeed, 
Albeit  I  know  my  knights  fantastical, 
So  fine  a  fear  in  our  large  Lancelot 
Must  needs  have  moved  my  laughter;  now  remains 
But  little  cause  for  laughter:  his  own  kin — 
111  news,  my  Queen,  for  all  who  love  him,  these. 
His  kith  and  kin,  not  knowing,  set  upon  him; 
So  that  he  went  sore  wounded  from  the  field : 
Yet  good  news  too:  for  goodly  hopes  aie  mine 
That  Lancelot  is  no  more  a  lonely  heart. 
He  wore,  against  his  wont,  upon  his  helm 
A  sleeve  of  scarlet,  broidered  with  great  pearls, 
Some  gentle  maiden's  gift."  • 

"  Yea,  lord,"  she  said, 
-4  Your  hopes  are  mine,"  and  saying  that  she  choked, 
And  sharply  turn'd  about  to  hide  her  face, 
Moved  to  her  chamber,  and  there  flung  herself 
Down  on  the  great  King's  couch,  and  writhed  upon  it* 
And  clench'd  her  fingers  till  they  bit  the  palm, 
And  shriek'd  out  "  traitor"  to  the  unhearing  wall, 
Then  flash'd  into  wild  tears,  and  rose  again, 
And  moved  about  her  palace,  proud  and  pale. 

Gawain  the  while  thro'  all  the  region  round 
Rode  with  his  diamond,  wearied  of  the  quest, 
Touch'd  at  all  points,  except  the  poplar  grove, 
And  came  at  last,  tho'  late,  to  Astolat: 
Whom  glittering  in  enamell'd  arms  the  maid 
Glanced  at,  and  cried,  "  What  news  from  Camelot,  lord? 
What  of  the  knight  with  the  red  sleeve?"     "  He  won." 
"  I  knew  it,"  she  said.     "  But  parted  from  the  jousts 
Hurt  in  the  side,"   whereat  she  caught  her  breath. 
Thro'  her  own  side  she  felt  the  sharp  lance  go; 
Thereon  she  smote  her  hand:  wellnigh  she  swoor'd* 
And  while  he  gazed  wonderingly  at  her,  came 
The  lord  of  Astolat  out,  to  whom  the  Prince 
Reported  who  he  was,  and  on  what  quest 
Sent,  that  he  bore  the  prize  and  could  not  find 


86*  ELAINE. 

The  victor,  but  had  ridden  wildly  round 
To  seek  him,  and  was  wearied  of  the  search. 
To  whom  the  lord  of  Astolat,  "  Bide  with  us, 
And  ride  no  longer  wildly,  noble  Prince. 
Here  was  the  knight,  and  here  he  left  a  shield; 
This  will  he  send  or  come  for:  furthermore 
Our  son  is  with  him;  we  shall  hear  anon, 
Needs  must  we  hear."     To  this  the  courteous  Prince 
Accorded  with  his  wonted  courtesy, 
Courtesy  with  a  touch  of  traitor  in  it. 
And  stay'd;  and  cast  his  eyes  on  fair  Elaine: 
Where  could  be  found  face  daintier?  then  her  shape 
From  forehead  down  to  foot  perfect — again 
From  foot  to  forehead  exquisitely  turn'd: 
«  Well— if  I  bide,  lo!  this  wild  flower  for  me!  " 
And  oft  they  met  among  the  garden  yews, 
And  there  he  set  himself  to  play  upon  her 
With  sallying  wit,  free  flashes  from  a  height 
Above  her,  graces  of  the  court,  and  songs, 
Sighs,  and  slow  smiles,  and  golden  eloquence 
And  amorous  adulation,  till  the  maid 
Rebell'd  against  it,  saying  to  him,  "  Prince, 
O  loyal  nephew  of  our  noble  King, 
Why  ask  you  not  to  see  the  shield  he  left, 
Whence  you  might  learn  his  name  ?     Why  slight  your  King 
And  lose  the  quest  he  sent  you  on,  and  prove 
No  surer  than  our  falcon  yesterday, 
Who  lost  the  hern  we  slipt  him  at,  and  went 
To  all  the  winds?  "     "  Nay,  by  mine  head,"  said  he. 
"  I  lose  it,  as  we  lose  the  lark  in  heaven, 
O  damsel,  in  the  light  of  your  blue  eyes; 
But  an  you  will  it  let  me  see  the  shield." 
And  when  the  shield  was  brought,  and  Gawain  saw 
Sir  Lancelot's  azure  lions,  crown'd  with  gold, 
Ramp  in  the  field,  he  smote  his  thigh  and  mock'd: 
—  Right  was  the  King!  our  Lancelot!  that  true  man!*"' 
"And  right  was  I,"  she  answer' d  merrily,  "1, 
Who  dream'd  my  knight  the  greatest  knight  of  all." 
«  And  if /dream'd,"  said  Gawain,  "that  you  love 
This  greatest  knight,  your  pardon!  lo,  you  know  it! 
bpeak  therefore:  shall  I  wasts  myself  in  vain?  " 
Full  simple  was  her  answer:  "  What  know  I? 
My  brethren  have  been  all  my  fellowship, 
And  T,  when  often  they  have  talk'd  of  love, 
Wished  it  had  been  my  mother,  for  they  talk'd, 


ELAINR  665 

Meseem'd,  of  what  they  knew  not;  so  myself — 

I  know  not  if  I  know  what  true  love  is, 

But  if  I  know,  then,  if  I  love  not  him, 

Methinks  there  is  none  other  I  can  love." 

u  Yea,  by  God's  death,"  said  he,  "  you  love  him  well, 

But  would  not,  knew  you  what  all  others  know, 

And  whom  he  loves."     "  So  be  it,"  cried  Elaine, 

And  lifted  her  fair  face  and  moved  away : 

But  he  pursued  her  calling,  "  Stay  a  little! 

One  golden  minute's  grace:  he  wore  your  sleeve: 

Would  he  break  faith  with  one  I  may  not  name? 

Must  our  true  man  change  like  a  leaf  at  last  ? 

May  it  be  so?  why  then,  far  be  it  from  me 

To  cross  our  mighty  Lancelot  in  his  love-! 

And,  damsel,  for  I  deem  you  know  full  well 

Where  your  great  knight  is  hidden,  let  me  leave 

My  quest  with  you:  the  diamond  also:  here! 

For  if  you  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  give  it; 

And  if  he  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  have  it 

From  your  own  hand;  and  whether  he  loves  or  not, 

A  diamond  is  a  diamond.     Fare  you  well 

A  thousand  times! — a  thousand  times  farewell! 

Yet,  if  he  love,  and  his  love  hold,  we  two 

May  meet  at  court  hereafter:  there,  I  think, 

So  you  will  learn  the  courtesies  of  the  court, 

We  two  shall  know  each  other." 

Then  he  gave, 
And  slightly  kiss'd  the  hand  to  which  he  gave, 
The  diamond,  and  all  wearied  of  the  quest 
Leapt  on  his  horse,  and  carolling  as  he  went 
A  true-love  ballad,  lightly  rode  away. 

Thence  to  the  court  he  past;  there  told  the  King 
What  the  King  knew,  "Sir  Lancelot  is  the  knight." 
And  added,  "  Sire,  my  liege,  so  much  I  learnt; 
But  fail'd  to  find  him  tho'  I  rode  all  round 
The  region;  but  I  lighted  on  the  maid, 
Whose  sleeve  he  wore;  she  loves  him;  and  to  her, 
Deeming  our  courtesy  is  the  truest  law, 
I  gave  the  diamond:  she  will  render  it; 
For  by  my  head  she  knows  his  hiding  place.* 

The  seldom-frowning  King  frown'd,  and  replied, 
"Too  courteous  truly!  you  shall  go  no  more 


666  BLAINE. 


On  quest  of  mine,  seeing  that  you  forget 
Obedience  is  the  courtesy  due  to  kings." 

He  spake  and  parted.     Wroth  but  all  in  awe, 
For  twenty  strokes  of  the  blood,  without  a  word, 
Lingered  that  other,  staring  after  him ; 
Then  shook  his  hair,  strode  off,  and  buzz'd  abroad 
About  the  maid  of  Astolat,  and  her  love. 
All  ears  were  prick'd  at  once,  all  tongues  were  loosed: 
"  The  maid  of  Astolat  loves  Sir  Lancelot, 
Sir  Lancelot  loves  the  maid  of  Astolat." 
Some  read  the  King's  face,  some  the  Queen's,  and  all 
Had  marvel  what  the  maid  might  be,  but  most 
Predoom'd  her  as  unworthy.     One  old  dame 
Came  suddenly  on  the  Queen  with  the  sharp  news. 
She,  that  had  heard  the  noise  of  it  before, 
But  sorrowing  Lancelot  should  have  stoop'd  so  low, 
Marr'd  her  friend's  point  with  pale  tranquillity. 
So  ran  the  tale  like  fire  about  the  court, 
Fire  in  dry  stubble  a  nine  days'  wonder  flared: 
Till  ev'n  the  knights  at  banquet  twice  or  thrice 
Forgot  to  drink  to  Lancelot  and  the  Queen, 
And  pledging  Lancelot  and  the  lily  maid 
Smiled  at  each  other,  while  the  Queen  who  sat 
With  lips  severely  placid  felt  the  knot 
Climb  in  her  throat,  and  with  her  feet  unseen 
Crush'd  the  wild  passion  out  against  the  floor 
Beneath  the  banquet,  where  the  meats  became 
As  wormwood,  and  she  hated  all  who  pledged. 

. 
But  far  away  the  maid  in  Astolat, 
Her  guiltless  rival,  she  that  ever  kept 
The  one-day-seen  Sir  Lancelot  in  her  heart, 
Crept  to  her  father,  while  he  mused  alone, 
Sat  on  his  knee,  stroked  his  gray  face  and  said, 
"  Father,  you  call  me  wilful,  and  the  fault 
Is  yours  who  let  me  have  my  will,  and  now, 
Sweet  father,  will  you  let  me  lose  my  wits? " 
"  Nay,"  said  he,  u  surely."     "Wherefore  let  me  hence," 
She  answer'd  "and  find  out  our  dear  Lavaine." 
"  You  will  not  lose  your  wits  for  dear  Lavaine : 
Bide,"  answer'd  he:  "we  needs  must  hear  anon 
Of  him,  and  of  that  other."     "Ay,"  she  said, 
"And  of  that  other,  for  I  needs  must  hence 


ELAINE.  ■  M7 


And  find  that  other,  wheresoever  he  be, 
And  with  mine  own  hand  give  his  diamond  to  him, 
Lest  I  be  found  as  faithless  in  the  quest 
As  yon  proud  Prince  who  left  the  quest  to  me. 
Sweet  father,  I  behold  him  in  my  dreams 
Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself, 
Death-pale,  for  lack  of  gentle  maiden's  aid. 
The  gentler-born  the  maiden,  the  more  bound, 
My  father,  to  be  sweet  and  serviceable 
To  noble  knights  in  sickness,  as  you  know, 
When  these  have  worn  their  tokens:  let  me  hence, 
1  pray  you."     Then  her  father  nodding  said, 
"Ay,  ay,  the  diamond:  wit  you  well,  my  child, 
Right  fain  were  I  to  learn  this  knight  were  whole, 
Being  our  greatest:  yea,  and  you  must  give  it — 
And  sure  I  think  this  fruit  is  hung  too  high 
For  any  mouth  to  gape  for  save  a  Queen's — 
Nay,  I  mean  nothing:  so  then,  get  you  gone, 
Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go." 

Lightly,  her  suit  allow'd,  she  slipt  away, 
And  while  she  made  her  ready  for  her  ride. 
Her  father's  latest  word  humm'd  in  her  ear, 
"  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go," 
And  changed  itself  and  echoed  in  her  heart, 
«*  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  die." 
But  she  was  happy  enough  and  shook  it  off, 
As  we  shake  off  the  bee  that  buzzes  at  us; 
And  in  her  heart  she  answer' d  it  and  said, 
"  What  matter,  so  I  help  him  back  to  life?" 
Then  far  away  with  good  Sir  Torre  for  guide 
Rode  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless  downs 
To  Camelot,  and  before  the  city-gates 
Came  on  her  brother  with  a  happy  face 
Making  a  roan  horse  caper  and  curvet 
For  pleasure  all  about  a  field  of  flowers: 
Whom  when  she  saw,  "  Lavaine,"  she  cried,  "  Lavaine 
How  fares  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot?  "     He  amazed, 
"Torre  and  Elaine!  why  here?  Sir  Lancelot! 
How  know  you  my  lord's  name  is  Lancelot?" 
But  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  her  tale, 
Then  turn'd  Sir  Torre,  and  being  in  his  moods, 
Left  them,  and  under  the  strange-statued  gate, 
Where  Arthur's  wars  were  render'd  mystically, 


668  BLAINE. 


Past  up  the  still  rich  city  to  his  kin, 

His  own  far  blood,  which  dwelt  at  Camelot; 

And  her  Lavaine  across  the  poplar  grove    * 

Led  to  the  caves :  there  first  she  saw  the  casque 

Of  Lancelot  on  the  wall:  her  scarlet  sleeve, 

Tho'  carved  and  cut,  and  half  the  pearls  away, 

Stream'd  from  it  still ;  and  in  her  heart  she  laughM, 

Because  he  had  not  loosed  it  from  his  helm, 

But  meant  once  more  perchance  to  tourney  in  it. 

Arid  when  they  gain'd  the  cell  in  which  he  slept, 

His  battle- writhen  arms  and  mighty  hands 

Lay  naked  on  the  wolfskin,  and  a  dream 

Of  dragging  down  his  enemy  made  them  move. 

Then  she  that  saw  him  lying  unsleek,  unshorn, 

Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself, 

Utter'd  a  little  tender  dolorous  cry. 

The  sound  not  wonted  in  a  place  so  still 

Woke  the  sick  knight,  and  while  he  roll'd  his  eyes 

Yet  blank  from  sleep,  she  started  to  him,  saying, 

"  Your  prize  the  diamond  sent  you  by  the  King:" 

His  eyes  glisten'd;  she  fancied  "is  it  for  me?" 

And  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  the  tale 

Of  King  and  Prince,  the  diamond  sent,  the  quest 

Assign'd  to  her  not  worthy  of  it,  she  knelt 

Full  lowly  by  the  corners  of  his  bed, 

And  laid  the  diamond  in  his  open  hand. 

Her  face  was  near,  and  as  we  kiss  the  child 

That  does  the  task  assign'd,  he  kiss'd  her  face. 

At  once  she  slipt  like  water  to  the  floor. 

'Alas,"  he  said,  "your  ride  has  wearied  you. 

Rest  must  you  have."     "  No  rest  for  me,"   she  said; 

"  Nay,  for  near  you,  fair  lord,  I  am  at  rest." 

What  might  she  mean  by  that?  his  large  black  eyes, 

Yet  larger  thro'  his  leanness,  dwelt  upon  her, 

Till  all  her  heart's  sad  secret  blazed  itself 

In  the  heart's  colors  on  her  simple  face; 

And  Lancelot  look'd  and  was  perplext  in  mind, 

And  being  weak  in  body  said  no  more; 

But  did  not  love  the  color;  woman's  love, 

Save  one,  he  not  regarded,  and  so  turn'd 

Sighing,  and  feign'd  a  sleep  until  he  slept. 

Then  rose  Elaine  and  glided  thro'  the  fields, 
And  past  beneath  the  wildly-sculptured  gates 


BLAINE.  66© 


Far  up  the  dim  rich  city  to  her  kin; 

There  bode  the  night:  but  woke  with  dawn,  and  past 

Down  thro'  the  dim  rich  city  to  the  fields, 

Thence  to  the  cave :  so  day  by  day  she  past 

In  either  twilight  ghost-like  to  and  fro 

Gliding,  and  every  day  she  tended  him, 

And  likewise  many  a  night:  and  Lancelot 

Would,  tho'  he  calPd  his  wound  a  little  hurt 

Whereof  he  should  be  quickly  whole,  at  times 

Brain-feverous  in  his  heat  and  agony,  seem 

Uncourteous,  even  he:  but  the  meek  maid 

Sweetly  forbore  him  ever,  being  to  him 

Meeker  than  any  child  to  a  rough  nurse, 

Milder  than  any  mother  to  a  sick  child, 

And  never  woman  yet,  since  man's  first  fall, 

Did  kindlier  unto  man,  but  her  deep  love 

Upbore  her;  till  the  hermit,  skilPd  in  all 

The  simples  and  the  science  of  that  time, 

Told  him  that  her  fine  care  had  saved  his  life. 

And  the  sick  man  forgot  her  simple  blush, 

Would  call  her  friend  and  sister,  sweet  Elaine, 

Would  listen  for  her  coming  and  regret 

Her  parting  step,  and  held  her  tenderly, 

And  loved  her  with  all  love  except  the  love 

Of  man  and  woman  when  they  love  their  best 

Closest  and  sweetest,  and  had  died  the  death 

In  any  knightly  fashion  for  her  sake. 

And  peradventure  had  he  seen  her  first 

She  might  have  made  this  and  that  other  world 

Another  world  for  the  sick  man;  hut  now 

The  shackles  of  an  old  love  straitenM  him, 

His  honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stood, 

And  faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely  true. 

Yet  the  great  knight  in  his  mid-sickness  made 
Full  many  a  holy  vow  and  pure  resolve. 
These,  as  but  born  of  sickness,  could  not  live: 
For  when  the  blood  ran  lustier  in  him  again, 
Full  often  the  sweet  image  of  one  face, 
Making  a  treacherous  quiet  in  his  heart, 
Dispersed  his  resolution  like  a  cloud. 
Then  if  the  maiden,  while  that  ghostly  grace 
Beam'd  on  his  fancy,  spoke,  he  answer'd  not, 
Or  short  and  coldly,  and  she  knew  right  well 


670  BLAINE. 


What  the  rough  sickness  meant,  but  what  this  meant 

She  knew  not,  and  the  sorrow  dimm'd  her  sight, 

And  drave  her  ere  her  time  across  the  fields 

Far  into  the  rich  city,  where  alone 

She  murmur'd,  "  Vain,  in  vain:  it  cannot  be. 

He  will  not  love  me:  how  then?  must  I  die?" 

Then  as  a  little  helpless  innocent  bird, 

That  has  but  one  plain  passage  of  few  notes, 

Will  sing  the  simple  passage  o'er  and  o'er 

For  all  an  April  morning,  till  the  ear 

Wearies  to  hear  it,  so  the  simple  maid 

Went  half  the  night  repeating,  u  Must  I  die? " 

And  now  to  right  she  turn'd,  and  now  to  left, 

And  found  no  ease  in  turning  or  in  rest; 

And  "  him  or  death  "  she  mutter'd,  "  death  or  him," 

Again  and  like  a  burthen,  «  him  or  death." 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot's  deadly  hurt  was  whole, 
To  Astolat  returning  rode  the  three. 
There  morn  by  morn,  arraying  her  sweet  self 
In  that  wherein  she  deem'd  she  look'd  her  best, 
She  came  before  Sir  Lancelot,  for  she  thought 
"  If  I  be  loved,  these  are  my  festal  robes 
If  not,  the  victim's  flowers  before  he  fall." 
And  Lancelot  ever  prest  upon  the  maid 
That  she  should  ask  some  goodly  gift  of  him 
For  her  own  self  or  hers ;  "  and  do  not  shun 
To  speak  the  wish  most  near  to  your  true  heart; 
Such  service  have  you  done  me,  that  I  make 
My  will  of  yours,  and  Prince  and  Lord  am  I 
In  mine  own  land,  and  what  I  will  I  can." 
Then  like  a  ghost  she  lifted  up  her  face, 
But  like  a  ghost  without  the  power  to  speak. 
And  Lancelot  saw  that  she  withheld  her  wish, 
And  bode  among  them  yet  a  little  space, 
Till  he  should  learn  it;  and  one  morn  it  chanced 
He  found  her  in  among  the  garden  yews, 
And  said,  "Delay  no  longer,  speak  your  wish, 
Seeing  I  must  go  to-day:"  then  out  she  brake; 
"  Going?  and  we  shall  never  see  you  more. 
And  I  must  die  for  want  of  one  bold  word." 
"  Speak:  that  I  live  to  hear,"  he  said,  "  is  yours." 
Then  suddenly  and  passionately  she  spoke : 
"I  have  gone  mad.     I  love  you:  let  me  die." 


BLAINE.  67J 


44  Ah  sister,"  answer'd  Lancelot,  "  what  is  this?" 

And  innocently  extending  her  white  arms, 

"  Your  love,"  she  said,  "  your  love — to  be  your  wife." 

And  Lancelot  answer'd,  "  Had  I  chos'n  to  wed, 

I  had  been  wedded  earlier,  sweet  Elaine: 

But  now  there  never  will  be  wife  of  mine." 

**  No,  no,"  she  cried,  "  I  care  not  to  be  wife, 

But  to  be  with  you  still,  to  see  your  face, 

To  serve  you,  and  to  follow  you  thro*  the  world." 

And  Lancelot  answer'd,  "  Nay,  the  world,  the  world, 

All  ear  and  eye,  with  such  a  stupid  heart 

To  interpret  ear  and  eye,  and  such  a  tongue 

To  blare  its  own  interpretation — nay, 

Full  ill  then  should  I  quit  your  brother's  love, 

And  your  good  father's  kindness."    And  she  said, 

"  Not  to  be  with  you,  not  to  see  your  face, 

Alas  for  me  then,  my  good  days  are  done  " 

"Nay,  noble  maid,"  he  answer'd,  "ten  time*  nay! 

This  is  not  love:  but  love's  first  flash  in  youth, 

Most  common:  yea,  I  know  it  of  mine  own  self: 

And  you  yourself  will  smile  at  your  own  self 

Hereafter,  when  you  yield  your  flower  of  life 

To  one  more  fitly  yours,  not  thrice  your  age: 

And  then  will  I,  for  true  you  are  and  sweet 

Beyond  mine  old  belief  in  womanhood, 

More  specially  should  your  good  knight  be  poor, 

Endow  you  with  broad  land  and  territory 

Even  to  the  half  my  realm  beyond  the  Beat, 

So  that  would  make  you  happy;  furthermore, 

Ev'n  to  the  death,  as  tho'  you  were  my  blood, 

In  all  your  quarrels  will  I  be  your  knight. 

This  will  I  do,  dear  damsel,  for  your  sake, 

And  more  than  this  I  cannot." 

While  he  spoke 
She  neither  blush'd  nor  shook,  but  deathly  pale 
Stood  grasping  what  was  nearest,  then  replied, 
"Of  all  this  will  I  nothing;"  and  so  fell, 
And  thus  they  bore  her  swooning  to  her  tower. 

Then  spake,  to  whom  thro'  those  black  walls  of  yew 
Their  talk  had  pierced,  her  father,  "  Ay,  a  flash, 
I  fear  me,  that  will  strike  my  blossom  dead. 
Too  courteous  are  you,  fair  Lord  Lancelot. 
I  pray  you,  use  some  rough  discourtesy 


672  BLAINE. 


To  blunt  or  break  her  passion." 

Lancelot  said, 
"  That  were  against  me;  what  I  can  I  will;" 
And  there  that  day  remain'd,  and  toward  even 
Sent  for  his  shield:  full  meekly  rose  the  maid, 
Stript  off  the  case,  and  gave  the  naked  shield; 
Then,  when  she  heard  his  horse  upon  the  stones, 
Unclasping  flung  the  casement  back,  and  look'd 
Down  on  his  helm,  from  which  her  sleeve  had  gone. 
And  Lancelot  knew  the  little  clinking  sound: 
And  she  by  tact  of  love  was  well  aware 
That  Lancelot  knew  that  she  was  looking  at  him. 
And  yet  he  glanced  not  up,  nor  waved  his  hand. 
Nor  bade  farewell,  but  sadly  rode  away. 
This  was  the  one  discourtesy  that  he  used. 

So  in  her  tower  alone  the  maiden  sat: 
His  very  shield  was  gon« :  only  the  case, 
Her  own  poor  work,  her  empty  labor,  left. 
But  still  she  heard  him,  still  his  picture  form'd 
And  grew  between  her  and  the  pictured  wall. 
Then  came  her  father,  saying  in  low  tdnes, 
"  Have  comfort,"  whom  she  greeted  quietly. 
Then  came  her  brethren  saying,  "  Peace  to  thee, 
Sweet  sister,"  whom  she  answer'd  with  all  calm. 
But  when  they  left  her  to  herself  again, 
Death,  like  a  friend's  voice  from  a  distant  field 
Approaching  thro'  the  darkness,  called ;  the  owls 
Wailing  had  power  upon  her,  and  she  mixt 
Her  fancies  with  the  sallow-rifted  glooms 
Of  evening,  and  the  moanings  of  the  wind. 

And  in  those  days  she  made  a  little  song, 
And  call'd  her  song  "  The  Song  of  Love  and  Death," 
And  sang  it :  sweetly  could  she  make  and  sing. 

"Sweet  is  true  love,  tho'  given  in  vain,  in  vain; 
And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to  pain : 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

"Love,  art  thou  sweet?  then  bitter  death  must  be: 
Love,  thou  art  bitter;  sweet  is  death  to  me. 
Q  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter^  let  me  die. 


ELAINE.  673 


"  Sweet  Love,  that  seems  not  made  to  fade  away, 
Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us  loveless  clay, 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

"  I  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that  could  be: 
I  needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls  for  me; 
Call  and  I  follow,  I  follow!  let  me  die." 

High  with  the  last  line  scaled  her  voice,  and  this, 
All  in  a  fiery  dawning  wild  with  wind 
That  shook  her  tower,  the  brothers  heard,  and  thought 
With  shuddering,  "  Hark  the  Phantom  of  the  house 
That  ever  shrieks  before  a  death,"  and  call'd 
The  father,  and  all  three  in  hurry  and  fear 
Ran  to  her,  and  lo!  the  blood-red  light  of  dawn 
Flared  on  her  face,  she  shrilling  "  Let  me  die!" 

As  when  we  dwell  upon  a  word  we  know, 
Repeating,  till  the  word  we  know  so  well 
Becomes  a  wonder  and  we  Know  not  why, 
So  dwelt  the  father  on  her  face  and  thought 
"Is  this  Elaine?"  till  back  the  maiden  fell, 
Then  gave  a  languid  hand  to  each,  and  lay, 
Speaking  a  still  good-morrow  with  her  eyes. 
At  last  she  said,  "  Sweet  brothers,  yesternight 
I  Beem'd  a  curious  little  maid  again, 
As  happy  as  when  we  dwelt  among  the  woods, 
And  when  you  used  to  take  me  with  the  flood 
Up  the  great  river  in  the  boatman's  boat. 
Only  you  would  not  pass  beyond  the  cape 
That  has  the  poplar  on  it:  there  you  fixt 
Your  limit,  oft  returning  with  the  tide, 
And  yet  I  cried  because  you  would  not  pass 
Beyond  it,  and  far  up  the  shining  flood 
Until  we  found  the  palace  of  the  king. 
And  yet  you  would  not;  hut  this  night  I  dream'd 
That  I  was  all  alone  upon  the  flood, 
And  then  I  said,  'Now  shall  I  have  my  will:' 
And  there  I  woke,  but  still  the  wish  remained. 
So  let  me  hence  that  I  may  pass  at  last 
Beyond  the  poplar  and  far  up  the  flood, 
Until  I  find  the  palace  of  the  king. 
There  will  I  enter  in  among  them  all, 


674  ELAINE. 


And  no  man  there  will  dare  to  mock  at  me ; 
But  there  the  fine  Gawain  will  wonder  at  me, 
And  there  the  gi'eat  Sir  Lancelot  muse  at  me; 
Gawain,  who  bade  a  thousand  farewells  to  me, 
Lancelot,  who  coldly  went  nor  bade  me  one: 
And  there  the  King  will  know  me  and  my  love, 
And  there  the  Queen  herself  will  pity  me, 
And  all  the  gentle  court  will  welcome  me, 
And  after  my  long  voyage  I  shall  rest!" 

"  Peace,"  said  her  father,  "  O  my  child,  you  seem 
Light-headed,  for  what  force  is  yours  to  go, 
So  far,  being  sick?  and  wherefore  would  you  look 
On  this  proud  fellow  again,  who  scorns  us  all  ? " 

Then  the  rough  Torre  began  to  heave  and  move, 
And  bluster  into  stormy  sobs  and  say, 
"  I  never  loved  him:  an  I  meet  with  him, 
I  care  not  howsoever  great  he  be, 
Then  will  I  strike  at  him  and  strike  him  down. 
Give  me  good  fortune,  I  will  strike  him  dead, 
For  this  discomfort  he  hath  done  the  house." 

To  which  the  gentle  sister  made  reply, 
"  Fret  not  yourself,  dear  brother,  nor  be  wroth, 
Seeing  it  is  no  more  Sir  Lancelot's  fault 
Not  to  love  me,  than  is  it  mine  to  love 
Him  of  all  men  who  seems  to  me  the  highest." 

"Highest?  "  the  Father  answer'd,  echoing  "  highest." 
(He  meant  to  break  the  passion  in  her.)     "  Nay, 
Daughter,  I  know  not  what  you  call  the  highest; 
But  this  I  know,  for  all  the  people  know  it, 
He  loves  the  Queen,  and  in  an  open  shame; 
And  she  returns  his  love  in  open  shame. 
If  this  be  high,  what  is  it  to  be  low?" 

Then  spake  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat: 
"  Sweet  father,  all  too  faint  and  sick  am  I 
For  anger:  these  are  slanders:  never  yet 
Was  noble  man  but  made  ignoble  talk. 
He  makes  no  friend  who  never  made  a  foe. 
But  now  it  is  my  glory  to  have  loved 


ELAINE.  676 


One  peerless,  without  stain:  so  lei  me  pass, 
My  father,  howsoever  I  seem  to  you, 
Not  all  unhappy,  having  loved  God's  best 
And  greatest,  tho'  my  love  had  no  return : 
Yet,  seeing  you  desire  your  child  to  live, 
Thanks,  but  you  work  against  your  own  desire; 
For  if  I  could  believe  the  things  you  say 
I  should  but  die  the  sooner:  wherefore  cease, 
Sweet  father,  and  bid  call  the  ghostly  man 
Hither,  and  let  me  shrive  me  clean,  and  die." 

So  when  the  ghostly  man  had  come  and  gone, 
She  with  a  face,  bright  as  for  sin  forgiven, 
Besought  Lavaine  to  write  as  she  devised 
A  letter,  word  for  word;  and  when  he  ask'd 
"  Is  it  for  Lancelot,  is  it  for  my  dear  lord? 
Then  will  I  bear  it  gladly;"  she  replied, 
«  For  Lancelot  and  the  Queen  and  all  the  world, 
But  I  myself  must  bear  it."     Then  he  wrote 
The  letter  she  devised;  which  being  writ 
And  folded,  "  O  sweet  father,  tender  and  true, 
Deny  me  not,"  she  said — "you  never  yet- 
Denied  my  fancies — this,  however  strange, 
My  latest:  lay  the  letter  in  my  hand 
A  little  ere  I  die,  and  close  the  hand 
Upon  it;  I  shall  guard  it  even  in  death, 
And  when  the  heat  is  gone  from  out  my  heart, 
Then  take  the  little  bed  on  which  I  died 
For  Lancelot's  love,  and  deck  it  like  the  Queen's 
For  richness,  and  me  also  like  the  Queen 
In  all  I  have  of  rich,  and  lay  me  on  it. 
And  let  there  be  prepared  a  chariot-bier 
To  take  me  to  the  river,  and  a  barge 
Be  ready  on  the  river,  clothed  in  black. 
I  go  in  state  to  court,  to  meet  the  Queen. 
There  surely  I  shall  speak  for  mine  own  sell", 
And  none  of  you  can  speak  for  me  so  well. 
And  therefore  let  our  dumb  old  man  alone 
Go  with  me,  he  can  steer  and  row,  and  he 
Will  guide  me  to  that  palace,  to  the  doors." 

She  ceased:  her  father  promised;  whereupon 
She  grew  so  cheerful  that  they  deem'd  her  death 
Was  rather  in  the  fantasy  than  the  blood. 


(676) 


ELAINE.  677 

But  ten  slow  mornings  past,  and  on  the  eleventh 
Her  father  laid  the  letter  in  her  hand, 
And  closed  the  hand  upon  it,  and  she  died. 
So  that  day  there  was  dole  in  Astolat. 

But  when  the  next  sun  brake  from  underground, 
Then,  those  two  brethren  slowly  with  bent  brows 
Accompanying,  the  sad  chariot-bier 

khIow  thro'  the  field,  that  shone 
Full-summer,  to  that  stream  whereon  the  barge, 
Pall'd  all  its.  length  in  blackest  samite,  lav. 
There  sat  the  lifelong  creature  of  the  house, 
Loyal,  the  dumb  old  servitor,  on  deck 
Winking  his  eyes,  and  twisted  all  hia  face. 
So  those  two  brethren  from  the  chariot  took 
And  on  the  black  decks  laid  her  in  her  bed, 
Set  in  her  hand  a  lily,  o'er  her  hung 
The  silken  case  with  braided  blazoning*, 
And  kiss'd  her  quiet  brows,  and  saying  to  her, 
"Sister,  farewell  forever,"  and  again, 
"  Farewell,  sweet  sister,"  parted  all  in  tears. 
Then  rose  the  dumb  old  servitor,  and  the  dead 
SteerM  by  the  dumb  went  upward  with  the  flood — 
In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 
The  letter — all  her  bright  hair  streaming  down — 
And  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold 
Down  to  her  waist,  and  she  herself  in  white 
All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-featured  face 
Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as  dead 
But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  tho'  she  smiled. 

That  day  Sir  Lancelot  at  the  palace  craved 
Audience  of  Guinevere,  to  give  at  last 
The  price  of  half  a  realm,  his  costly  gift, 
Hard-won  and  hardly  won  with  bruise  and  blow, 
With  deaths  of  others,  and  almost  his  own, 
The  nine-years-fbught-for  diamonds:  for  he  saw 
One  of  her  house,  and  sent  him  to  the  Queen 
Bearing  his  wi^h,  whereto  the  Queen  agreed 
With  such  and  so  unmoved  a  majesty 
She  might  have  seemM  her  statue,  but  that  he, 
Low-drooping  till  he  wellnigh  kiss'd  her  feet 
For  loyal  awe,  saw  with  a  sidelong  eye 
The  shadow  of  a  piece  of  pointed  lace, 


fi78  ELAINE. 


In  the  Queen's  shadow,  vibrate  on  the  walls, 
And  parted,  laughing  in  his  courtly  heart. 

All  in  an  oriel  on  the  summer  side, 
Vine-clad,  of  Arthur's  palace  toward  the  stream, 
They  met,  and  Lancelot  kneeling  utter'd  "  Queen, 
Lady,  my  liege,  in  whom  I  have  my  joy, 
Take,  what  I  had  not  won  except  for  you, 
These  jewels,  and  make  me  happy,  making  them 
Ar  armlet  for  the  roundest  arm  on  earth, 
Or  necklace  for  a  neck  to  which  the  swan's 
Is  tawnier  than  her  cygnet's :  these  are  words : 
Your  beauty  is  your  beauty,  and  I  sin 
In  speaking,  yet  O  grant  my  worship  of  it 
Words,  as  we  grant  grief  tears.     Such  sin  in  words 
Perchance,  we  both  can  pardon :  but,  my  Queen, 
I  hear  of  rumors  flying  thro'  your  court. 
Our  bond,  as  not  the  bond  of  man  and  wife, 
Should  have  in  it  an  absoluter  trust 
To  make  up  that  defect:  let  rumors  be: 
When  did  not  rumors  fly?  these,  as  I  trust 
That  you  trust  me  in  your  own  nobleness, 
I  may  not  well  believe  that  you  believe." 

While  thus  he  spoke,  half  turned  away,  the  Queen 
Brake  from  the  vast  oriel-embowering  vine 
Leaf  after  leaf,  and  tore,  and  cast  them  off, 
Till  all  the  place  whereon  she  stood  was  green ; 
Then,  when  he  ceased,  in  one  cold  passive  hand 
Received  at  once  and  laid  aside  the  gems 
There  on  a  table  near,  and  replied : 

"  It  may  be,  I  am  quicker  of  belief 
Than  you  believe  me,  Lancelot  of  the  Lake. 
Our  bend  is  not  the  bond  of  man  and  wife. 
This  good  is  in  it,  whatsoe'r  of  ill, 
It  can  be  broken  easier.     I  for  you 
This  many  a  year  have  done  despite  and  wrong 
To  one  whom  ever  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
I  did  acknowledge  nobler.     What  are  these? 
Diamonds  for  me!  they  had  been  thrice  their  worth 
Being  your  gift,  had  you  not  lost  your  own. 
To  loyal  hearts  the  value  of  all  gifts 
Must  vary  as  the  giver's.     Not  for  me! 


ELAINE.  •  679 

For  her!  for  your  new  fancy.     Only  this 

Grant  me,  I  pray  you:  have  your  joys  apart. 

I  doubt  not  that  however  changed,  you  keep 

So  much  of  what  is  graceful :  and  myself 

Would  shun  to  break  those  bounds  of  courtesy 

In  which  as  Arthur's  queen  I  move  and  rule; 

So  cannot  speak  my  mind.     An  end  to  this! 

A  strange  one!  yet  I  take  it  with  Amen. 

So  pray  you,  add  my  diamonds  to  her  pearls; 

Deck  her  with  these;  tell  her,  she  shines  me  down: 

An  armlet  for  an  arm  to  which  the  Queen's 

Is  haggard,  or  a  necklace  for  a  neck 

O  as  much  fairer — as  a  faith  once  fair 

Was  richer  than  these  diamonds — hers  not  mine — 

Nay,  by  the  mother  of  our  Lord  himself, 

Or  hers  or  mine,  mine  now  to  work  my  will — 

She  shall  not  have  them." 

Saying  which  she  seized, 
And  thro'  the  casement  standing  wide  for  heat, 
Flung  them,  and  down  they  flash'd,  and  smote  the  stream 
Then  from  the  smitten  surface  flash'd  as  it  were, 
Diamonds  to  meet  them,  and  they  past  away. 
Then  while  Sir  Lancelot  leant,  in  half  disgust 
At  love,  life,  all  things,  on  the  window  ledge, 
Close  underneath  his  eyes,  and  right  across 
Where  these  had  fallen,  slowly  past  the  barge 
Whereon  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat 
Lay  smiling,  like  a  star  in  blackest  night. 

But  the  wild  Queen,  who  saw  not,  burst  away 
To  weep  and  wail  in  secret;  and  the  barge 
On  to  the  palace-doorway  sliding,  paused. 
There  two  stood  arm'd,  and  kept  the  door;  to  whorr. 
All  up  the  marble  stair,  tier  over  tier, 
Were  added  mouths  that  gaped,  and  eyes  that  ask'd 
"  What  is  it?"  but  that  oarsman's  haggard  face, 
As  hard  and  still  as  is  the  face  that  men 
Shape  to  their  fancy's  eye  from  broken  rocks 
On  some  cliff-side,  appall'd  them,  and  they  said, 
**  He  is  enchanted,  cannot  speak  —and  she, 
Look  how  she  sleeps — the  Fairy  Queen,  so  fair! 
Yea,  but  how  pale!  what  are  they?  flesh  and  blood? 
Or  come  to  take  the  King  to  fairy  land? 
For  some  do  hold  our  Arthur  cannot  die, 
But  that  he  passes  into  fairy  land." 


680  ELAINE. 


While  thus  they  babbled  of  the  King,  the  King 
Came  girt  with  knights:  then  turn'd  the  tongueless  man 
From  the  half-face  to  the  full  eye,  and  rose 
And  pointed  to  the  damsel,  and  the  doors. 
So  Arthur  bade  the  meek  Sir  Percivale 
And  pure  Sir  Galahad  to  uplift  the  maid; 
And  reverently  they  bore  her  into  hall. 
Then  came  the  fine  Gawain,  and  wonder'd  at  her, 
And  Lancelot  later  came  and  mused  at  her, 
At  last  the  Queen  herself  and  pitied  her: 
But  Arthur  spied  the  letter  in  her  hand, 
Stoopt,  took,  brake  seal,  and  read  it;  this  was  all: 

■ 
"Most  noble  lord,  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  Lake, 
I,  sometime  call'd  the  maid  of  Astolat, 
Come,  for  you  left  me  taking  no  farewell, 
Hither,  to  take  my  last  farewell  of  you. 
I  loved  you,  and  my  love  had  no  return, 
And  therefore  my  true  love  has  beqn  my  death. 
And  therefore  to  our  lady  Guinevere, 
And  to  all  other  ladies,  I  make  moan. 
Pray  for  my  soul,  and  yield  me  burial. 
Pray  for  my  soul,  thou  too,  Sir  Lancelot, 
As  thou  art  a  knight  peerless." 


Thus  he  read, 
And  ever  in  the  readings  lords  and  dames 
Wept,  looking  often  from  his  face  who  read 
To  hers  which  lay  so  silent,  and  at  times, 
So  touch'd  were  they,  half-thinking  that  her  lips, 
Who  had  devised  the  letter,  moved  again. 


Then  freely  spoke  Sir  Lancelot  to  them  all: 
"  My  lord  liege  Arthur,  and  all  ye  that  hear, 
Know  that  for  this  most  gentle  maiden's  death 
Right  heavy  am  I :  for  good  she  was  and  true, 
But  loved  me  with  a  love  beyond  all  love 
In  women,  whomsoever  I  have  known. 
Yet  to  be  loved  makes  not  to  love  again; 
Not  at  my  years,  however  it  hold  in  youth. 
I  swear  by  truth  and  knighthood  that  I  gave 
No  cause,  not  willingly,  for  such  a  love : 
To  this  I  call  my  friends  in  testimony. 


ELA1NB.  681 


Her  brethren,  and  her  father,  who  himself 
Besought  me  to  be  plain  and  blunt,  and  use, 
To  break  her  passion,  some  discourtesy 
Against  my  nature:   what  I  could,  I  did. 
I  left  her  and  I  bade  her  no  farewell. 
Tho'  had  I  dreamt  the  damsel  would  have  died, 
I  might  have  put  my  wits  to  some  rough  use, 
And  help'd  her  from  herself." 

Then  said  the  Queen 
(Sea  was  her  wrath,  yet  working  after  storm), 
u  You  might  at  least  have  done  her  so  much  grace. 
Fair  lord,  a^  would  have  helpM  her  from  her  death." 
He  raised  his  head,  their  eyes  met  and  hers  fell, 
I  [e  adding, 

a  Queen,  she  would  not  be  content 
Save  that  I  wedded  her,  which  could  not  be. 
Then  might  she  follow  me  thro'  the  world,  she  ask'd; 
It  could  not  be.      I  told  her  that  her  love- 
Was  but  the  flash  of  youth,  would  darken  down 
To  rise  hereafter  in  a  stiller  flame 
Toward  one  more  worthy  of  her — then  would  k, 
More  specially  were  he,  she  wedded,  poor, 
Estate  them  with  large  land   and  territory 
In   mine  own  realm  beyond  the  narrow  seas, 
To  keep  them  in  all  joyance:   more  than  this 
I  could  not:  this  she  would  not,  and  she  died." 

He  pausing,  Arthur  answer'd,  "  O  my  knight, 
It  will  be  to  your  worship  as  m\   knight, 
And  mine,  as  head  of  all  our  Table  Round, 
To  see  that  she  be  buried  worshipfully." 

So  toward  that  shrine  which  then  in  all  the  reaini 
Was  richest,  Arthur  leading,  slowly  went 
The  mnrshall'd  order  <>f  their  Table  Round, 
And  Lancelot  sad  beyond  his  wont,  to  see 
The  maiden  buried,  not  as  one  unknown, 
Nor  meanly,  but  with  gorgeous  ohsequ 
And  ina>s,  and  rolling  music,  like  a  Queen. 
And  when  the  knights  had  laid  her  comely  head 
Low  in  the  dust  of  half- forgotten  kings, 
Then  Arthur  spake  among  them,  "  Let  her  tomo 


682  ELAINE. 


Be  costly,  and  her  image  thereupon. 

And  let  the  shield  of  Lancelot  at  her  feet 

Be  carven,  and  her  lily  in  her  hand. 

And  let  the  story  of  her  dolorous  voyage 

For  all  true  hearts  be  blazon'd  on  her  tomb 

In  letters  gold  and  azure!"  which  was  wrought 

Thereafter;  but  when  now  the  lords  and  dames 

And  people,  from  the  high  door,  streaming,  brake 

Disorderly,  as  homeward  each,  the  Queen, 

Who  mark'd  Sir  Lancelot  where  he  moved  apart, 

Drew  near,  and  sigh'd  in  passing,  "  Lancelot, 

Forgive  me;  mine  was  jealousy  in  love." 

He  answer'd  with  his  eyes  upon  the  ground, 

"That  is  love's  curse;  pass  on,  my  Queen,  forgiven." 

But  Arthur  who  beheld  his  cloudy  brows 

Approach'd  him,  and  with  full  affection  flung 

vne  arm  about  his  neck,  and  spake  and  said: 

"Lancelot,  my  Lancelot,  thou  in  whom  I  have 
Jffost  joy  and  most  affiance,  for  I  know 
W  nat  thou  hast  been  in  battle  by  my  side, 
And  many  a  time  have  watch'd  thee  at  the  tilt 
Strike  down  the  lusty  and  long-practised  knight, 
And  let  the  younger  and  unskill'd  go  by 
To  win  his  honor  and  to  make  his  name, 
And  loved  thy  courtesies  and  thee,  a  man 
Made  to  be  loved; — but  now  I  would  to  God 
For  the  wild  people  say  wild  things  of  thee, 
Thou  couldst  have  loved  this  maiden,  shaped,  it  seems 
Bv  God  for  thee  alone,  and  from  her  face, 
If  one  may  judge  the  living  by  the  dead, 
Delicately  pure  and  marvellously  fair, 
Who  might  have  brought  thee,  now  a  lonely  man 
Wifeless  and  heirless,  noble  issue,  sons 
Born  to  the  glory  of  thy  name  and  fame, 
My  knight,  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  Lake." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  "  Fair  she  wras,  my  King. 
Pure,  as  you  ever  wish  your  knights  to  be. 
To  doubt  her  fairness  were  to  want  an  eye, 
To  doubt  her  pureness  were  to  want  a  heart. — 
Yea,  to  be  loved,  if  what  is  worthy  love 
Could  bind  him,  but  free  love  will  not  be  bound." 


ELAINE.  683 


"  Free  love,  so  bound  were  freest,"  said  the  King. 
u  Let  love  be  free;  free  love  is  for  the  best : 
And,  after  heaveu,  on  our  dull  side  of  death, 
What  should  be  best,  if  not  so  pure  a  love 
Clothed  in  so  pure  a  loveliness?  yet  thee 
She  fail'd  to  bind,  tho'  being,  as  I  think, 
Unbound  as  yet,  and  gentle,  as  1  know." 

And  Lancelot  answerM  nothing,  but  he  went, 
And  at  the  inrunning  of  a  little  brook 
Sat  by  the  river  in  a  cove  and  watch'd 
The  high  reed  wave,  and  lifted  up  his  eyes 
And  saw  the  barge  that  brought  her  moving  down, 
Far-off,  a  blot  upon  the  stream,  and  said 
Low  in  himself,  "Ah  simple  heart  and  sweet, 
You  loved  me,  damsel,  surely  with  a  love 
l'.ii  tenderer  than 'my  Queen's.     Pray  for  thy  soul? 
Ay,  that  will  I.     Farewell  too — now  at  last — 
Farewell,  fair  lily.     'Jealousy  in  love?' 
Not  rather  dead  love's  harsh  heir,  jealous  pride? 
Queen,  if  I  grant  the  jealousy  as  of  love, 
May  not  your  crescent  fear  for  name  and  fame 
Speak,  as  it  waxes,  of  a  love  that  wanes? 
Why  did  the  King  dwell  on  my  name  to  me? 
Mine  own  name  shames  me,  seeming  a  reproach, 
Lancelot,  whom  the  Lady  of  the  Lake 
Stole  from  his  mother — as  the  story  runs — 
She  chanted  snatches  of  mysterious  song 
Heard  on  the  winding  waters,  eve  and  morn 
She  kiss'd  me  saying  thou  art  fair,  my  child, 
As  a  king's  son,  and  often  in  her  arms 
She  bare  me,  pacing  on  the  dusky  mere. 
Would  she  had  drown'd  me  in  it,  where'er  it  be! 
For  what  am  I?  what  profits  me  my  name 
Of  greatest  knight?  I  fought  for  it,  and  have  it: 
Pleasure  to  have  it,  none;  to  lose  it,  pain: 
Now  grown  a  part  of  me:  but  what  use  in  it? 
To  make  men  worse  by  making  my  sin  known? 
Or  sin  seem  less,  the  sinner  seeming  great? 
Alas  for  Arthur's  greatest  knight,  a  man 
Not  after  Arthur's  heart,  I  needs  must  break 
These  bonds  that  so  defame  me:  not  without 
She  wills  it:  would  I,  if  she  will'd  it?  nay, 
Who  knows?  but  if  I  would  not,  then  may  God, 


684 


ELAINE. 


I  pray  him,  send  a  sudden  Angel  down 
To  seize  me  by  the  hair  and  bear  me  far, 
And  fling  me  deep  in  that  forgotten  mere, 
Among  the  tumbled  fragments  of  the  hills." 

So  groan'd  Sir  Lancelot  in  remorseful  pain, 
Not  knowing  he  should  die  a  holy  man. 


*      *~      ',--~  «^*^fr  Vr-"  -c.-v-*> 


GUINEVERE. 


68-3 


GUINEVERE. 


UEEN  GUINEVERE  had  fled  the  court, 
and  sat 
There  in  the  holy  house  at  Almesbury 
Weeping,  none  with  her  save  a  little  maid, 
A    novice:    one    low   light   betwixt    them 

burn'd 
Blurr'd  by  the  creeping  mist,  for  all  abroad, 
Beneath  a  moon  unseen  albeit  at  full, 
The  white  mist,  like  a  face-cloth  to  the  face, 
Clung  to  the  dead  earth,  and  the  land  was  still. 

For  hither  had  she  fled,  her  cause  of  flight 
Sir  Modred;  he  the  nearest  to  the  King, 
His  nephew,  ever  like  a  subtle  beast 
Lay  couchant  with  his  eyes  upon  the  throne, 
Ready  to  spring,  waiting  a  chance :  for  this, 
He  chill'd  the  popular  praises  of  the  King, 
With  silent  smiles  of  slow  disparagement; 
And  tampered  with  the  lords  of  the  White  Horse, 


686  GUINEVERE. 


Heathen,  the  brood  by  Hengist  left;  and  sought 
To  make  disruption  in  the  Table  Round 
Of  Arthur,  and  to  splinter  it  into  feuds 
Serving  his  traitorous  end;  and  all  his  aims 
Were  sharpen'd  by  strong  hate  for  Lancelot. 

For  thus  it  chanced  one  morn  when  all  the  court, 
Green-suited,  but  with  plumes  that  mock'd  the  Ma  f , 
Had  been,  their  wont,  a-maying  and  return'd, 
That  Modred  still  in  green,  all  ear  and  eye, 
Climb'd  to  the  high  top  of  the  garden  wall 
To  spy  some  secret  scandal  if  he  might, 
And  saw  the  Queen,  who  sat  betwixt  her  best 
Enid,  and  lissome  Vivien,  of  her  court 
The  wiliest  and  the  worst;  and  more  than  this 
He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Lancelot  passing  by 
Spied  where  he  couch'd,  and  as  the  gardener's  hand 
Picks  from  the  colewort  a  green  caterpillar, 
So  from  the  high  wall  and  the  flowering  grove 
Of  grasses  Lancelot  pluck'd  him  by  the  heel, 
And  cast  him  as  a  worm  upon  the  way; 
But  when  he  knew  the  Prince  tho'  marr'd  with  dust, 
He,  reverencing  king's  blood  in  a  bad  man, 
Made  such  excuses  as  he  might,  and  these 
Full  knightly  without  scorn;  for  in  those  days 
No  knight  of  Arthur's  noblest  dealt  in  scorn ; 
But,  if  a  man  were  halt  or  hunch'd,  in  him 
By  those  whom  God  had  made  full-limb'd  and  tall, 
Scorn  was  allow'd  as  part  of  his  defect, 
And  he  was  answer'd  softly  by  the  King 
And  all  his  Table.     So  Sir  Lancelot  holp 
To  raise  the  Prince,  who  rising  twice  or  thrice 
Full  sharply  smote  his  knees,  and  smiled,  and  went; 
But,  ever  after,  the  small  violence  done 
Rankled  in  him  and  ruffled  all  his  heart, 
As  the  sharp  wind  that  ruffles  all  day  long 
A  little  bitter  pool  about  a  stone 
On  the  bare  coast. 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot  told 
This  matter  to  the  Queen,  at  first  she  laugh'd 
Lightly,  to  think  of  Modred's  dusty  fall, 
Then  shudder'd,  as  the  village  wife  who  cries 
'♦I  shudder,  some  one  steps  across  my  grave;" 


GUI.XEVERE.  687 


Then  laugh'd  again,  but  faintlier,  for  indeed 
She  half-foresaw  that  he,  the  subtle  beast, 
Would  track  her  guilt  until  he  found,  and  hers 
Would  be  fore  verm  ore  a  name  of  scorn. 

I  Icnceforward  rarely  could  she  front  in  Hall, 
Or  elsewhere,  Mod  red's  narrow  foxy  face, 

I I  cart-hiding  smile,  and  gray  persistent  eye. 
Henceforward  too,  the  Powers  that  tend  the  soul, 
To  help  it  from  the  death  that  cannot  die, 

And  save  it  even  in  extremes,  began 
To  vex  and  plague  her.     Many  a  time  for  hours, 
Beside  the  placid  breathings  of  the  King, 
In  the  dead  night,  grim  faces  came  and  went 
Before  her,  or  a  vague  spiritual  fear — 
Like  to  some  doubtful  noise  of  creaking  doors, 
Heard  by  the  watcher  in  a  haunted  house, 
That  keeps  the  rust  of  murder  on  the  walls— 
I  [eld  her  awake;  or  if  she  slept,  she  dream'd 
An  awful  dream;  for  then  she  seem'd  to  stand 
( )n  some  vast  plain  before  a  setting  sun, 
And  from  the  sun  there  swiftly  made  at  her 
A  ghastly  something,  and  its  shadow  flew 
Before  her,  till  it  touch'd  her,  and  she  turn'd — 
When  lo!  her  own,  that  broadening  from  her  feet, 
And  blackening,  swallow'd  all  the  land,  and  in  it 
Far  cities  burnt,  and  with  a  cry  she  woke. 
And  all  this  trouble  did  not  pass  but  grew; 
Till  ev'n  the  clear  face  of  the  guileless  King, 
And  trustful  courtesies  of  household  life, 
Became  her  bane;  and  at  the  last  she  said, 
"  O  Lancelot,  get  thee    hence  to  thine  own  land, 
For  if  thou  tarry  we  shall  meet  again, 
And  if  we  meet  again  some  evil  chance 
Will  make  the  smouldering  scandal  break  and  blaze 
Before  the  people,  and  our  lord  the  King." 
And  Lancelot  ever  promised,  but  remained, 
And  still  they  met  and  met.     Again  she  said, 
"  O  Lancelot,  if  thou  love  me  get  thee  hence," 
And  then  they  were  agreed  upon  a  night 
(When  the  good  King  should  not  be  there)  to  meet 
And  part  forever.     Passion-pale  they  met 
And  greeted:  hands  in  hands,  and  eye  to  eye, 
Low  on  the  border  of  her  couch  they  sat 
Stammering  and  staring;  it  was  their  last  hour, 
A  madness  of  farewells.     And  Modred  brought 


688  GUINEVERE, 


His  creatures  to  the  basement  of  the  tower 

For  testimony;  and  crying  with  full  voice, 

"  Traitor,  come  out,  ye  are  trapt  at  last,"  aroused 

Lancelot,  who  rushing  outward  lionlike 

Leapt  on  him,  and  hurl'd  him  headlong,  and  he  fell 

Stunn'd,  and  his  creatures  took  and  bare  him  off 

And  all  was  still:  then  she,  "The  end  is  come 

And  I  am  shamed  forever:  "  and  he  said, 

"  Mine  be  the  shame:  mine  was  the  sin;  but  rise, 

And  fly  to  my  strong  castle  overseas; 

There  will  I  hide  thee,  till  my  life. shall  end, 

There  hold  thee  with  my  life  against  the  world." 

She  answer'd,  "  Lancelot,  wilt  thou  hold  me  so  ? 

Nay  friend,  for  we  have  taken  our  farewells. 

Would  God,  that  thou  couldst  hide  me  from  myself? 

Mine  is  the  shame,  for  I  was  wife,  and  thou 

Unwedded:  yet  rise  now,  and  let  us  fly, 

For  I  will  draw  me  into  sanctuary, 

And  bide  my  doom."     So  Lancelot  got  her  horse, 

Set  her  thereon,  and  mounted  on  his  own, 

And  then  they  rode  to  the  divided  way, 

There  kiss'd,  and  parted  weeping:  for  he  past 

Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen, 

Back  to  his  land;  but  she  to  Almesbury 

Fled  all  night  long  by  glimmering  waste  and  weald, 

And  heard  the  Spirits  of  the  waste  and  weald 

Moan  as  she  fled,  or  thought  she  heard  them  moan: 

And  in  herself  she  moan'd,  "  Too  late,  too  late!  " 

Till  in  the  cold  and  wind  that  foreruns  the  morn. 

A  blot  in  heaven,  the  Raven,  flying  high, 

Croak'd,  and  she  thought,  "  He  spies  a  field  of  death; 

For  now  the  heathen  of  the  Northern  Sea, 

Lured  by  the  crimes  and  frailties  of  the  court, 

Begin  to  slay  the  folk,  and  spoil  the  land." 

And  when  she  came  to  Almesbury  she  spake 
There  to  the  nuns,  and  said,  "  Mine  enemies 
Pursue  me,  but,  O  peaceful  Sisterhood, 
Receive,  and  yield  me  sanctuary,  nor  ask 
Her  name,  to  whom  ye  yield  it,  till  her  time 
To  tell  you:"   and  her  beauty,  grace,  and  power 
Wrought  as  a  charm  upon  them,  and  they  spared 
To  ask  it. 


GUINEVERE.  689 


the  stately  Queen  abode 
For  many  a  week,  unknown,  among  the  nuns; 
Nor  with  them  mixM,  nor  told  her  name,  nor  sought, 
Wrapt  in  her  grief,  for  house]  or  for  shrift, 
But  communed  only  with  the  little  maid, 
Who  pleased  her  with  a  babbling  heedlessness 
Which  often  lured  her  from  herself;  hut  now, 
This  night,  a  rumor  wildly  blown  about 
Came  that  Sir  Mod  red  bad  usurp'd  the  realm, 

And  leagued  him  with  the  heathen,  while  the  King 

Was  waging  war  on  Lancelot:  then  she  thought, 

"With  what  a  hate  the  people  and  the  K.iiiL,r 

Musi  hate  me,"  and  bow'd  down  upon  her  hands 

Silent,  until  the  little  maid,  who  hrook'd 

No  silence,  brake  it,  uttering  u  Latel  so  late! 

What  hour,  I  wonder,  now?"  and  when  the  drew 

No  answer,  h\   and  by  began   to  hum 

An  air  the  nuns  had  taught  her;  "  Late,  so  late!" 

Which  when  she  heard,  the  Queen  look'd  up,  and  said, 

44  O  maiden,  if  indeed  you  list  to  Sing, 

Sing  and  unbind  my  heart  that  I  may  weep." 

Whereat  full  willingly  sang  the  little  maid. 

44  Late,  late,  so  late!  and  dark  the  night  and  chill! 
Late,  late,  so  late!   hut  we  can  enter  still. 
Too  late,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

44  No  light  had  we:  for  that  we  do  repent; 
And  learning  this,  the  bridegroom  will  relent. 
Too  late,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

44  \To  light:  so  late!  and  dark  and  chill  the  night! 
O  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light! 
Too  late,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

44  Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom  is  so  sweet? 
O  let  us  in,  tho1  late,  to  kiss  his  feet! 
No,  no,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter  now." 

So  sang  the  novice,  while  full  passionately, 
Her  head  upon  her  hands,  remembering 
Her  thought  when  first  she  came,  wept  the  sad  Queen. 
Then  said  the  little  novice  prattling  to  her: 


690  GUINEVERE. 


"O  pray  you,  noble  lady,  weep  no  more: 
But  let  my  words,  the  words  of  one  so  small, 
Who  knowing  nothing  knows  but  to  obey, 
And  if  I  do  not  there  is  penance  given — 
Comfort  your  sorrows;  for  they  do  not  flow 
From  evil  done:  right  sure  am  I  of  that, 
Who  see  your  tender  grace  and  stateliness. 
But  weigh  your  sorrows  with  our  lord  the  King's, 
And  weighing  find  them  less;  for  gone  is  he 
To  wage  grim  war  against  Sir  Lancelot  there, 
Round  that  strong  castle  where  he  holds  the  Queen; 
And  Mod  red  whom  he  left  in  charge  of  all, 
The  traitor — Ah  sweet  lady,  the  King's  grief 
For  his  own  self,  and  his  own  Queen,  and  realm. 
Must  needs  be  thrice  as  great  as  any  of  ours. 
For  me  I  thank  the  saints  I  am  not  great. 
For  if  there  ever  come  a  grief  to  me 
I  cry  my  cry  in  silence,  and  have  done: 
None  knows  it,  and  my  tears  have  brought  me  good. 
But  even  were  the  griefs  of  little  ones 
As  great  as  those  of  great  ones,  yet  this  grief 
Is  added  to  the  griefs  the  great  must  bear, 
That  howsoever  much  they  may  desire 
Silence,  they  cannot  weep  behind  a  cloud: 
As  even  here  they  talk  at  Almesbury 
About  the  good  King  and  his  wicked  Queen, 
And  were  I  such  a  King  with  such  a  Queen, 
Well  might  I  wish  to  veil  her  wickedness, 
But  were  I  such  a  King,  it  could  not  be." 

Then  to  her  own  sad  heart  mutter'd  the  Queen, 
«  Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  innocent  talk?  " 
But  openly  she  answer'd,  "Must  not  I, 
If  this  false  traitor  have  displaced  his  lord, 
Grieve  with  the  common  grief  of  all  the  realm? " 

V 

u  Yea,"  said  the  maid,  **  this  is  all  woman's  grie£ 
That  she  is  woman,  whose  disloyal  life 
Hath  wrought  confusion  in  the  Table  Round 
Which  good  King  Arthur  founded,  years  ago, 
With  signs  and  miracles  and  wonders,  there 
At  Camelot,  ere  the  coming  of  the  Queen." 


GUINEVERE.  691 


Then  thought  the  Queen  within   herself  again, 
*  Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  foolish  prate?  " 
But  openly  she  spake  and  said  to  her, 
"O. little  maid,  shut  in  by  nunnery  walls, 
What  canst  thou  know  of  Kings  and  Tables  Round, 
Or  what  of  signs  and  wonders,  but  the  signs 
And  simple  miracles  of  thy  nunnery? " 

To  whom  the  little  novice  garrulously*. 
"Yea,  but  I  know:  the  land  was  full  of  signs 
And  wonders  ere  the  coming  of  the  Queen. 
So  said  my  father,  and  himself  was  knight 
Of  the  great  Table — at  the  founding  of  it: 
And  rode  thereto  from  Lyonnesse,  and  he  said 
That  as  he  rode,  an  hour  or  maybe  twain 
After  the  sunset,  down  the  coast,  he  heard 
Strange  music,  and  he  paused  and  turning — there, 
All  down  the  lonely  coast  of  Lyonnesse, 
Each  with  a  beacon-star  upon   his  head, 
And  with  a  wild  sea-light  about  his  feet, 
He  saw  them — headland  after  headland  flame 
Far  on  into  the  rich  heart  of  the  west : 
And  in  the  light  the  white  mermaiden  swam, 
And  strong  man-breasted  things  stood  from  the  sea, 
And  sent  a  deep  sea-voice  thro'  all  the  land, 
To  which  the  little  elves  of  chasm  and  cleft 
Made  answer,  sounding  like  a  distant  horn. 
So  said  my  father— yea,  and  furthermore, 
Next  morning,  while  he  past  the  dim-lit  woods, 
Himself  beheld  three  spirits  mad  with  joy 
Come  dashing  down  on  a  tall  wayside  flower, 
That  shook  beneath  them,  as  the  thistle  shakes 
When  three  gray  linnets  wrangle  for  the  seed: 
And  still  at  evenings  on  before  his  horse 
The  flickering  fairy-circle  wheel'd  and  broke 
Flying,  and  link'd  again,  and  wheePd  and  broke 
Flying,  for  all  the  land  was  full  of  life. 
And  when  at  last  he  came  to  Camelot, 
A  wreath  of  airy  dancers  hand-in-hand 
Swung  round  the  lighted  lantern  of  the  hall; 
And  in  the  hall  itself  was  such  a  feast 
As  never  man  had  dream'd;  for  every  knigh* 
Had  whatsoever  meat  he  long'd  for  served 
By  hands  unseen;  and  even  as  he  said 


"  Himself  beheld  three  spirits  mad  with  joy 
Come  dashing  down  on  a  tall  wayside  flower?' 


See  page  6gi. 


(692) 


GUINEVERE.  693 


Down  in  the  cellars  merry  bloated  things 
Shoulder'd  the  spigot,  straddling  on  the  butts 
While  the  wine  ran:   so  glad  were  spirits  and  men 
Before  the  coming  of  the  sinful  Queen." 

Then  spake  the  Queen,  and  somewhat  bitterly. 
"Were  they  s<>  glad?  ill  prophets  were  they  all, 
Spirits  and  men:  could  none  of  them  foresee, 
Not  even  thy  wise  father  with  his  signs 
And  wonders,  what  has  fall'n  upon  the  realm?" 

To  whom  the  novice  garrulously  again: 
"  Ye*,  "lie,  a  hard;  of  whom  my  father  said, 
Full  many  a  noble  war-song  had  he  sung, 
Ev'n  in  the  presence  of  an  enemy's  fleet, 
Between  the  steep  cliff  and  the  coming  wave; 
And  many  a  mystic  lay  of  life  and  death 
Had  chanted  on  the  smoky  mountain-top-. 
When  round  him  bent   the  spirits  of  the  hills, 
With  all  their  dewy  hair  blown  back  like  flame: 
So  said  my  lather — and  that  night  the  bard 
Sang  Arthur's  glorious  Wars,  and  sang  the  King 
As  wellnigh  more  than  man,  and  raifd    at  those 
Who  callM  him  the  false  son  of  Gorlois: 
For  there  was  no  man  knew  from  whence  he  came: 
But  after  tempest,  when  the  long  wave  broke 
All  down  the  thundering  shores  of   Bude  and  Bos, 
There  came  a  day  as  still  as  heaven,  ami  then 
They  found  a  naked  child  upon  the  sands 
Of  dark  Dundagil  by  the  Cornish  sL  a  ; 
And  that  was  Arthur;  and  they  ibster'd  him 
Till  he  by  miracle  was  approved  k! 
And  that  his  grave  should  be  a  mystery 
From  all  men,  like  his  birth;  and  could  he  find 

•  man  in  her  womanhood  as  great 
As  he  was  in  his  manhood,  then,  Ik-  sang, 
The  twain  together  well  might  change  the  world. 
Hut  even  in  the  middle  of  his  song 
He  falterM,  and  his  hand  fell  from  the  harp, 
And  pale  he  turn'd,  and  reel'd,  and  would  have  fallV^ 
But  that  they  stay'd  him  up;  nor  would  he  tell 
1  Is  vision;  but  what  doubt  that  he  foresaw 
This  evil  work  of  Lancelot  and  the  Queen?" 


^94  GUINEVERE. 


Then  thought  the  Queen,  "  Lo!  they  have  set  her  on, 
Our  simple  seeming  Abbess  and  her  nuns, 
To  play  upon  me,"  and  bow'd  her  head  nor  spake. 
Whereat  the  novice  crying,  with  claspM  hands, 
Shame  on  her  own  garrulity  garrulously, 
Said  the  good  nuns  would  check  her  gadding  tongue 
Full  often,  "  And,  sweet  lady,  if  I  seem 
To  vex  an  ear  too  sad  to  listen  to  me, 
Unmannerly,  with  prattling  and  with  tales 
Which  my  good  father  told  me,  check  me  too: 
Nor  let  me  shame  my  father's  memory,  one 
Of  noblest  manners,  tho'  himself  would  say 
Sir  Lancelot  had  the  noblest;  and  he  died, 
Kill'd  in  a  tilt,  come  next,  five  summers  back, 
And  left  me;  but  of  others  who  remain, 
And  of  the  two  first-famed  for  courtesy — 
And  pray  you  check  me  if  I  ask  amiss — 
But  pray  you,  which  had  noblest,  while  you  moved 
Among  them,  Lancelot  or  our  lord  the  King?" 

Then  the  pale  Queen  look'd  up  and  answered  her, 
"  Sir  Lancelot,  as  became  a  noble  knight, 
Was  gracious  to  all  ladies,  and  the  same 
In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-field 
Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  these  two 
Were  the  most  nobly-manner'd  men  of  all; 
For  manners  are  not  idle,  but  the  fruit 
Of  loyal  nature,  and  of  noble  mind." 

"  Yea,"  said  the  maid,  "be  manners  such  fair  fruit? 
Then  Lancelot's  needs  must  be  a  thousand  fold 
Less  noble,  being,  as  all  rumor  runs, 
The  most  disloyal  friend  in  all  the  world." 

To  which  a  mournful  answer  made  the  Queen, 
wO  closed  about  by  narrowing  nunnery-walls, 
What  knowest  thou  of  the  world,  and  all  its  lights 
And  shadows,  all  the  wealth  and  all  the.  woe? 
If  ever  Lancelot,  that  most  noble  knight, 
Were  for  one  hour  less  noble  than  himself, 
Pray  for  him  that  he  scape  the  doom  of  fire, 
And  weep  for  her,  who  drew  him  to  his  doom." 


GUINEVERE.  695 


"  Yea,"  said  the  little  novice,  "  I  pray  for  both; 
But  I  should  all  as  soon  believe  that  his, 
Sir  Lancelot's,  were  as  noble  as  the  King's, 
As  I  could  think,  sweet  lady,  yours  would  be 
Such  as  they  are,  were  you  the  sinful  Queen." 

So  she,  like  many  another  babbler,  hurt 
Whom  she  would  soothe,  and  harm'd  where  she  would  heal; 
For  here  a  sudden  flush  of  wrathful  heat 
Fired  all  the  pale  face  of  the  Queen,  who  cried, 
"  Such  as  thou  art  be  never  maiden  more 
Forever!  thou  their  tool,  set  on  to  plague 
And  play  upon,  and  harry  me,  pretty  spy 
And  traitress."     When  that  storm  of  anger  brake 
From  Guinevere,  aghast  the  maiden  rose, 
White  as  her  veil,  and  stood  before  the  Queen 
As  tremulously  as  foam  upon  the  beach 
Stands  in  a  wind,  ready  to  break  and  fly, 
And  when  the  Queen  had  added  "Get  thee  hence!" 
Fled  frighted.     Then  that  other  left  alone 
Sigh'd,  and  began  to  gather  heart  again, 
Saying  in  herself,  "  The  simple,  fearful  child 
Meant  nothing,  but  my  own  too-fearful  guilt 
Simpler  than  any  child,  betrays  itself. 
But  help  me,  heaven,  for  surely  I  repent. 
For  what  is  true  repentance  but  in  thought — 
Not  e'en  in  inmost  thought  to  think  again 
The  sins  that  made  the  past  so  pleasant  to  us: 
And  I  have  sworn  never  to  see  him  more, 
To  see  him  more." 

And  e'en  in  saying  this, 
Her  memory  from  old  habit  of  the  mind 
Went  slipping  back  upon  the  golden  days 
In  which  she  saw  him  first,  when  Lancelot  came. 
Reputed  the  best  knight  and  goodliest  man, 
Ambassador,  to  lead  her  to  his  lord 
Arthur,  and  led  her  forth,  and  far  ahead 
Of  his  and  her  retinue  moving,  they, 
Rapt  in  sweet  thought,  or  lively,  all  on  love 
And  sport  and  tilts  and  pleasure,  (for  the  time 
Was  maytime,  and  as  yet  no  sin  was  dream'd,) 
Rode  under  groves  that  look'd  a  paradise 
Of  blossom,  over  sheets  of  hyacinth 


6G6  GUINEVERE. 


That  seem'd  the  heavens  upbreaking  thro'  the  earth, 

And  on  from  hill  to  hill,  and  every  day 

Beheld  at  noon  in  some  delicious  dale 

The  silk  pavilions  of  King  Arthur  raised 

For  brief  repast  or  afternoon  repose 

By  couriers  gone  before;  and  on  again, 

Till  yet  once  more  ere  set  of  sun  they  saw 

The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragonship, 

That  crown'd  the  state  pavilion  of  the  King, 

Blaze  by  the  rushing  brook  or  silent  well. 

But  when  the  Queen  immersed  in  such  a  trance, 
And  moving  thro'  the  past  unconsciously, 
Came  to  that  point,  when  first  she  saw  the  King 
Ride  toward  her  from  the  city,  sigh'd  to  find 
Her  journey  done,  glanced  at  him,  thought  him  cold, 
High,  self-contain'd,  and  passionless,  not  like  him, 
"  Not  like  my  Lancelot  " — while  she  brooded  thus 
And  grew  half-guilty  in  her  thoughts  again, 
There  rode  an  armed  warrior  to  the  doors. 
A  murmuring  whisper  thro'  the  nunnery  ran, 
Then  on  a  sudden  a  cry,  "  The  King."     She  sat 
Stiff-stricken,  listening;  but  when  armed  feet 
Thro'  the  long  gallery  from  the  outer  doors 
Rang  coming,  prone  from  off  her  seat  she  fell, 
And  grovell'd  with  her  face  against  the  floor: 
There  with  her  milkwhite  arms  and  shadowy  hair 
She  made  her  face  a  darkness  from  the  King: 
And  in  the  darkness  heard  his  armed  feet 
Pause  by  her;  then  came  silence,  then  a  voice, 
Monotonous  and  hollow  like  a  Ghost's 
Denouncing  judgment,  but  tho'  changed  the  King's. 

• 

"  Liest  thou  here  so  low,  the  child  of  one 
1  honor'd,  happy,  dead  before  thy  shame? 
Well  is  it  that  no  child  is  born  of  thee. 
The  children  born  of  thee  are  sword  and  fire, 
Red  ruin,  and  the  breaking  up  of  laws, 
The  craft  of  kindred  and  the  Godless  hosts 
Of  heathen  swarming  o'er  the  Northern  Sea. 
Whom  1,  while  yet  Sir  Lancelot,  my  right  arm, 
The  mightiest  of  my  knights,  abode  with  me, 
Have  everywhere  about  this  land  of  Christ 
In  twelve  great  battles  ruining  overthrown. 


GUINE  VERB.  697 


And  knowest  thou  now  from  whence  I  come — from  him, 

From  waging  bitter  war  with  him :  and  he, 

That  did  not  shun  to  smite  me  in  worse  way, 

Had  yet  that  grace  of  courtesy  in  him  left, 

He  spared  to  lift  his  hand  against  the  King 

Who  made  him  knight:   but  many  a  knight  was  slain; 

And  many  more,  and  all  his  kith  and  kin 

Clave  to  him,  and  abode  in  his  own  land. 

And  many  more  when  Modred  raised  revolt, 

Forgetful  of  their  troth  and  fealty,  clave 

To  Modred,  and  a  remnant  stays  with  me. 

And  of  this  remnant  will  I  leave  a  part, 

True  men  who  love  me  still,  for  whom  I  live, 

To  guard  thee  in  the  wild  hour  coming  on, 

Lest  but  a  hair  of  this  low  head  be  harm'd. 

Fear  not:   thou  shalt  be  guarded  till  my  death. 

Howbeit  I  know,  if  ancient  prophecies 

Have  err'd  not,  that  I  march  to  meet  my  doom. 

Thou  hast  not  made  my  life  so  sweet  to  me, 

That  I  the  King  should  greatly  care  to  live; 

For  thou  hast  spoilt  the  purpose  of  my  life. 

Bear  with  me  for  the  last  time  while  1  show, 

Ev'n  for  thy  sake,  the  sin  which  thou  hast  sinn'd. 

For  when  the  Roman  left  us,  and  their  law 

Relax'd  fts  hold  upon  us,  and  the  ways 

Were  fill'd  with  rapine,  here  and  there  a  deed 

Of  prowess  done  redress'd  a  random  wrong. 

But  I  was  first  of  all  the  kings  who  drew 

The  knighthood-errant  of  this  realm  and  all 

The  realms  together  under  me,  their  Head, 

In  that  fair  order  of  my  Table  Round, 

A  glorious  company,  the  flower  of  men, 

To  serve  as  model  for  the  mighty  world, 

And  be  the  fair  beginning  of  a  time. 

I  made  them  lay  their  hands  in  mine  and  swear 

To  reverence  the  King,  as  if  he  were 

Their  conscience,  and  their  conscience  as  their  King, 

To  break  the  heathen  and  uphold  the  Christ, 

To  ride  abroad  redressing  human  wrongs, 

To  speak  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen  to  it, 

To  lead  sweet  lives  in  purest  chastity, 

To  love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to  her, 

And  worship  her  by  years  of  noble  deeds, 

Until  they  won  her;  for  indeed  I  knew 

Of  no  more  subtle  master  under  heaven 


GUINEVERE. 


Than  is  the  maiden  passion  for  a  maid, 

Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in  man, 

But  teach  high  thought  and  amiable  words 

And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  of  fame, 

And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes  a  man. 

And  all  this  throve  until  I  wedded  thee ! 

Believing  "  lo  mine  helpmate,  one  to  feel 

My  purpose  and  rejoicing  in  my  joy." 

Then  came  thy  shameful  sin  with  Lancelot; 

Then  came  the  sin  of  Tristram  and  Isolt; 

Then  others,  following  these  my  mightiest  knights, 

And  drawing  foul  ensample  from  fair  names, 

Sinn'd  also,  till  the  loathsome  opposite 

Of  all  my  heart  had  destined  did  obtain, 

And  all  thro'  thee !  so  that  this  life  of  mine 

I  guard  as  God's  high  gift  from  scathe  and  wrong, 

Not  greatly  care  to  lose;  but  rather  think 

How  sad  it  were  for  Arthur,  should  he  live, 

To  sit  once  more  within  his  lonely  hall, 

And  miss  the  wonted  number  of  my  knights, 

And  miss  to  hear  high  talk  of  noble  deeds 

As  in  the  golden  days  before  thy  sin. 

For  which  of  us,  who  might  be  left,  could  speak 

Of  the  pure  heart,  nor  seem  to  glance  at  thee? 

And  in  thy  bowers  of  Camelot  or  of  Usk 

Thy  shadow  still  would  glide  from  room  to  room, 

And  I  should  evermore  be  vext  with  thee 

In  hanging  robe  or  vacant  ornament, 

Or  ghostly  footfall  echoing  on  the  stair. 

For  think  not,  tho'  thou  wouldst  not  love  thy  Lord, 

Thy  lord  has  wholly  lost  his  love  for  thee. 

I  am  not  made  of  so  slight  elements. 

Yet  must  I  leave  thee,  woman,  to  thy  shame. 

I  hold  that  man  the  worst  of  public  foes 

Who  either  for  his  own  or  children's  sake, 

To  save  his  blood  from  scandal,  lets  the  wife 

Whom  he  knows  false,  abide  and  rule  the  house: 

For  being  thro'  his  cowardice  allow'd 

Her  station,  taken  everywhere  for  pure, 

She  like  a  new  disease,  unknown  to  men, 

Creeps,  no  precaution  used,  among  the  crowd, 

Makes  wicked  lightnings  of  her  eyes,  and  saps 

The  fealty  of  our  friends,  and  stirs  the  pulse 

With  devil's  leaps,  and  poisons  half  the  young. 

Worst  of  the  worst  were  that  man  he  that  reigns! 


GUINEVERE. 


Better  the  King's  waste  hearth  and  aching  heart 
Than  thou  reseated  in  thy  place  of  light, 
The  mockery  of  my  people,  and  their  bane." 

He  paused,  and  in  the  pause  she  crept  an  inch   » 
Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his  feet. 
Far  off  a  solitary  trumpet  blew. 
Then  waiting  by  the  doors  the  war-horse  neigh'd 
As  at  a  friend's  voice,  and  he  spake  again: 

"  Yet  think  not  that  I  come  to  urge  thy  crimes, 
I  did  not  come  to  curse  thee,  Guinevere, 
I,  whose  vast  pity  almost  makes  me  die 
To  see  thee,  laying  there  thy  golden  head, 
My  pride  in  happier  summers,  at  my  feet 
The  wrath  which  forced  my  thoughts  on  that  fierce  law, 
The  doom  of  treason  and  the  flaming  death, 
(When  first  I  learnt  thee  hidden  here)  is  past 
The  pang — which  while  I  weigh'd  thy  heart  with  one 
Too  wholly  true  to  dream  untruth  in  thee, 
Made  my  tears  burn — is  also  past,  in  part. 
And  all  is  past,  the  sin  is  sinn'd,  and  I, 
Lo!  I  forgive  thee,  as  Eternal  God 
Forgives:  do  thou  for  thine  own  soul  the  rest. 
But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all  I  loved? 

0  golden  hair,  with  which  I  used  to  play 
Not  knowing!     O  imperial-moulded  form, 
And  beauty  such  as  never  woman  wore, 
Until  it  came  a  kingdom's  curse  with  thee — 

1  cannot  touch  thy  lips,  they  are  not  mine, 

But  Lancelot's:  nay,  they  never  were  the  King's. 

I  cannot  take  thy  hand;  that  too  is  flesh, 

And  in  the  llesh  thou  hast  sinnM;  and  mine  own  flesn, 

Here  Looking  down  on  thine  own  polluted,  cries 

CI  loathe  thee;'  yet  not  less,  O  Guinevere, 

For  I  was  ever  virgin  save  for  thee, 

My  love  thro'  flesh  hath  wrought  into  my  life 

So  far,  that  my  doom  is,  I  love  thee  still. 

Let  no  man  dream  but  that  I  love  thee  still. 

Perchance,  and  so  thou  purify  thy  soul, 

And  so  thou  lean  on  our  fair  father  Christ, 

Hereafter  in  that  world  where  alt  are  pure 

We  two  may  meet  before  high  God,  and  thou 

Wilt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine,  and  know 


700  GUINEVERE. 


I  am  thine  husband — not  a  smaller  soul, 

Nor  Lancelot,  nor  another.      Leave  me  that, 

I  charge  thee,  my  last  hope.     Now  must  I  hence. 

Thro'  the  thick  night  I  hear  the  trumpet  blow: 

They  summon  me  their  King  to  lead  mine  hosts 

Far  down  to  that  great  battle  in  the  west, 

Where  I  must  strike  against  my  sister's  son, 

Leagued  with  the  lords  of  the  White  Horse  and  knights 

Once  mine,  and  strike  him  dead,  and  meet  myself 

Death,  or  I  know  not  what  mysterious  doom. 

And  thou  remaining  here  wilt  learn  the  event; 

But  hither  shall  I  never  come  again, 

Never  lie  by  thy  side,  see  thee  no  more, 

Farewell!" 

And  while  she  grovell'd  at  his  feet, 
She  felt  the  King's  breath  wander  o'er  her  neck, 
And,  in  the  darkness  o'er  her  fallen  head, 
Perceived  the  waving  of  his  hands  that  blest. 

Then,  listening  till  those  armed  steps  were  gone, 
Rose  the  pale  Queen,  and  in  her  anguish  found 
The  casement:  "  Perad venture,"  so  she  thought, 
"  If  I  might  see  his  face,  and  not  be  seen." 
And  lo,  he  sat  on  horseback  at  the  door! 
And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  with  each  a  light 
Stood,  and  he  gave  them  charge  about  the  Queen, 
To  guard  and  foster  her  fore  verm  ore. 
And  while  he  spake  to  these  his  helm  was  lower'd, 
To  which  for  crest  the  golden  dragon  clung 
Of  Britain;  so  she  did  not  see  the  face, 
Which  then  was  as  an  angel's,  but  she  saw, 
Wet  with  the  mists  and  smitten  by  the  lights, 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragonship 
Blaze,  making  all  the  night  a  steam  of  fire. 
And  even  then  he  turn'd;  and  more  and  more 
The  moony  vapor  rolling  round  the  King, 
Who  seem'd  the  phantom  of  a  Giant  in  it, 
Enwound  him  fold  by  fold,  and  made  him  gray 
And  grayer,  till  himself  became  as  mist 
Before  her,  moving  ghostlike  to  his  doom. 

Then  she  stretch'd  out  her  arms  and  cried  aloud, 
ttO  Arthur!"  there  her  voice  brake  suddenly, 


GUINEVERE.  701 


Then — as  a  stream  that  spouting  from  a  cliff 
Fills  in  mid-air,  hut  gathering  at  the  base 
Re-makes  itself,  and  flashes  down  the  vale — 
Went  on  in  passionate  utterance. 

"  Gone — my  lord ! 
Gone  thro'  my  sin  to  slay  and  to  be  slain! 
And  he  forgave  me,  and  I  could  not  speak* 
Farewell?     I  should  have  answer'd  his  farewell. 
His  mercy  choked  me.     Gone,  my  lord  the  King, 
My  own  true  lord!  how  dare  I  call  him  mint? 
The  shadow  of  another  cleaves  to  me, 
And  makes  me  one  pollution:  he,  the  King, 
CalPd  me  polluted:  shall  I  kill  myself? 
What  help  in  that?     I  cannot  kill  my  sin, 
If  soul  be  soul;  nor  can  I  kill  my  shame; 
No,  nor  by  living  can  I  live  it  down. 
The  days  will  grow  to  weeks,  the  weeks  to  months, 
The  months  will  add  themselves  and  make  the  years 
The  years  will  roll  into  the  centuries, 
And  mine  will  ever  be  a  name  of  scorn. 
I  must  not  dwell  on  that  defeat  of  fame. 
Let  the  world  be;  that  is  but  of  the  world. 
What  else?  what  hope?  I  think  there  was  a  hope, 
Except  he  mock'd  me  when  he  spake  of  hope; 
His  hope  he  call'd  it;  but  he  never  mock*, 
For  mockery  is  the  fume  of  little  hearts 
And  blessed  be  the  King,  who  hath  forgiven 
My  wickedness  to  him,  and  left  me  hope 
That  in  mine  own  heart  I  can  live  down  sin 
And  be  his  mate  hereafter  in  the  heavens 
Before  high  God.     Ah  great  and  gentle  lord, 
Who  wast,  as  is  the  conscience  of  a  saint 
Among  his  warring  senses,  to  thy  knights — 
To  whom  my  false  voluptuous  pride,  that  took 
Full  easily  all  impressions  from  below, 
Would  not  look  up,  or  half-despised  the  height 
To  which  I  would  not  or  I  could  not  climb— 
I  thought  I  could  not  breathe  in  that  fine  air 
That  pure  severity  of  perfect  light — 
I  wanted  warmth  and  color  which  I  found 
In  Lancelot — now  I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
Thou  art  the  highest  and  most  human  too, 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  another.     Is  there  none 


702  GUINEVERE. 


Will  tell  the  King  I  love  him  tho'  so  late? 
Now — ere  he  goes  to  the  great  battle?  none: 
Myself  must  tell  him  in  that  purer  life, 
But  now  it  were  too  daring.     Ah  my  God, 
What  might  I  not  have  made  of  thy  fair  world, 
Had  I  but  loved  thy  highest  creature  here? 
It  was  my  duty  to  have  loved  the  highest: 
It  surely  was  my  profit  had  I  known : 
It  would  have  been  my  pleasure  had  I  seen. 
We  needs  must  love  the  highest  when  we  see  it, 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  another." 

Here  her  hand 
Grasp'd,  made  her  veil  her  eyes :  she  look'd  and  saw 
The  novice,  weeping,  suppliant,  and  said  to  her, 
"Yea,  little  maid,  for  am  /not  forgiven?" 
Then  glancing  up  beheld  the  holy  nuns 
All  round  her,  weeping;  and  her  heart  was  loosed 
Within  her,  and  she  wept  with  these  and  said : 

"  Ye  know  me  then,  that  wicked  one,  who  broke 
The  vast  design  and  purpose  of  the  King. 

0  shut  me  round  with  narrowing  nunnery- walls, 
Meek  maidens,  from  the  voices  crying  '  Shame.' 

1  must  not  scorn  myself:  he  loves  me  still. 
Let  no  one  dream  but  that  he  loves  me  still. 
So  let  me,  if  you  do  not  shudder  at  me 
Nor  shun  to  call  me  sister,  dwell  with  you: 
Wear  black  and  white,  and  be  a  nun  like  you; 
Fast  with  your  fasts,  not  feasting  with  your  feasts; 
Grieve  with  your  griefs,  not  grieving  at  your  joys, 
But  not  rejoicing;  mingle  with  your  rites; 

Pray  and  be  prayed  for;  lie  before  your  shrines; 

Do  each  low  office  of  your  holy  house; 

Walk  your  dim  cloister,  and  distribute  dole 

To  poor  sick  people,  richer  in  his  eyes 

Who  ransom'd  us,  and  haler  too  than  I; 

And  treat  their  loathsome  hurts  and  heal  mine  own; 

And  so  wear  out  in  almsdeed  and  in  prayer 

The  sombre  close  of  that  voluptuous  day, 

Which  wrought  the  ruin  of  my  lord  the  King." 

She  said:  they  took  her  to  themselves;  and  she 
Still  hoping,  fearing  "  Is  it  yet  too  late  ? " 


GUINEVERE. 


703 


Dwelt  with  them,  till  in  time  their  Abbess  died. 
Then  she,  for  her  good  deeds  and  her  pure  life, 
And  for  the  power  of  ministration  in  her, 
And  likewise  for  the  high  rank  she  had  borne, 
Was  chosen  Abbes?,  there,  an  Abbess  lived 
For  three  brief  years,  and  there,  an  Abbess,  past 
To  where  beyond  these  voices  there  is  peace. 


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ENOCH  ARDEN. 


70' 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 

[ONG  lines  of  cliff  breaking  have  left  a  chasm; 
And  in  the  chasm  are  foam  and  yellow  sands; 

id,  red  roofs  about  a  narrow  wharf 
In  cluster;  then  a  moulder'd  church;  and  higher 
A  long  street  climbs  to  one  tall-tower'd  mill; 
And  high  in  heaven  behind  it  a  gray  down 
With  Danish  harrows;  and  a  hazel  wood, 
By  autumn  nutters  haunted,  flourishes 
Green  in  a  cuplike  hollow  of  the  down. 

Here  on  this  beach  a  hundred  years  ago, 
Three  children  of  three  houses,  Annie  Lee, 
The  prettiest  little  damsel  in  the  port, 
And  Philip  Ray,  the  miller's  only  son, 
And  Enoch  Arden,  a  rough  sailor's  lad 
Made  orphan  by  a  winter  shipwreck,  play'd 
Among  the  waste  and  lumber  of  the  shore, 
Hard  coils  of  cordage,  swarthy  fishing-nets, 
Anchors  of  rusty  fluke,  and  boats  up-drawn; 
And  built  their  castles  of  dissolving  sand 
To  watch  them  overflow'd,  or  following  up 
And  flying  the  white  breaker,  daily  left 
The  little  footprint  daily  wash'd  away. 


A  narrow  cave  ran  in  beneath  the  cliff: 
In  this  the  children  play'd  at  keeping  house. 
Enoch  was  host  one  day,  Philip  the  next, 
While  Annie  still  was  mistress;  but  at  times 
Enoch  would  hold  possession  for  a  week: 
"  This  is  my  house  and  this  my  little  wife." 
"Mine  too,"  said  Philip,  "  turn  and  turn  about:" 
When,  if  they  quarrclM,  Enoch  stronger-made 
\V:t>  master:    then  would  Philip,  his  blue  eyes 
All  flooded  with  the  helpless  wrath  of  tears, 
Shriek  out,  "  I  hate  you,  Enoch,"  and  at  this 
The  little  wife  would  weep  for  company, 
And  pray  them  not  to  quarrel  for  her  sake, 
And  say  she  would  be  little  wife  to  both. 


708  ENOCH  ARDEN. 


But  when  the  dawn  of  rosy  childhood  past, 
And  the  new  warmth  of  life's  ascending  sun 
Was  felt  by  either,  either  fixt  his  heart 
On  that  one  girl ;  and  Enoch  spoke  his  love, 
But  Philip  loved  in  silence;  and  the  girl 
Seem'd  kinder  unto  Philip  than  to  him; 
But  she  loved  Enoch ;   tho'  she  knew  it  not, 
And  would  if  ask'd,  deny  it.     Enoch  set 
A  purpose  evermore  before  his  eyes, 
To  hoard  all  savings  to  the  uttermost, 
To  purchase  his  own  boat,  and  make  a  home 
For  Annie :  and  so  prosper'd  that  at  last 
A  luckier  or  a  bolder  fisherman, 
A  carefuler  in  peril,  did  not  breathe 
For  leagues  along  that  breaker-beaten  coast 
Than  Enoch.    Likewise  had  he  served  a  year 
On  board  a  merchantman,  and  made  himself 
Full  sailor;  and  he  thrice  had  pluck'd  a  life 
From  the  dread  sweep  of  the  down-streaming  seas: 
And  all  men  look'd  upon  him  favorably: 
And  ere  he  touch'd  his  one-and-twentieth  May, 
He  purchased  his  own  boat,  and  made  a  home 
For  Annie,  neat  and  nest-like,  half-way  up 
The  narrow  street  that  clamber'd  toward  the  mill. 

Then,  on  a  golden  autumn  eventide, 
The  younger  people  making  holiday, 
With  bag  and  sack  and  basket,  great  and  small, 
Went  nutting  to  the  hazels,  Philip  stay'd 
(His  father  lying  sick  and  needing  him) 
An  hour  behind;  but  as  he  climb'd  the  hill, 
Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood  began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  saw  the  pair, 
Enoch  and  Annie,  sitting  hand  in  hand, 
His  large  gray  eyes  and  weather-beaten  face 
All-kindled  by  a  still  and  sacred  fire, 
That  burned  as  on  an  altar.     Philip  look'd, 
And  in  their  eyes  and  faces  read  his  doom : 
Then,  as  their  faces  drew  together,  groaned 
And  slipt  aside,  and  like  a  wounded  life 
Crept  down  into  the  hollows  of  the  wood ; 
There,  while  the  rest  were  loudly  merry-making, 
Had  his  dark  hour  unseen,  and  rose  and  past 
Bearing  a  lifelong  hunger  in  his  heart. 


ENOCH  ARDEN.  709 


So  these  were  wed,  and  merrily  rang  the  bells, 
And  merrily  ran  the  years,  seven  happy  years, 
Seven  happy  years  of  health  and  competence, 
And  mutual  love  and  honorable  toil; 
With  children;  first  a  daughter.     In  him  woke, 
With  his  first  babe's  first  cry,  the  noble  wish 
To  save  all  earnings  to  the  uttermost, 
And  give  his  child  a  better  bringing-up 
Than  Ins  had  been,  or  hers;  a  wish  renew'd, 
When  two  years  after  came  a  boy  to  be 
The  rosy  idol  of  her  solitudes, 
While  Enoch  was  abroad  on  wrathful  seas, 
Or  often  journeying  landward;   for  in  truth 
Enoch's  white  horse,  and  Enoch's  ocean-spoil 
In  ocean-smelling  osier,  and  his  face, 
Rough-reddenM  with  a  thousand  winter  gales, 
Not  only  to  the  market-cross  were  known, 
But  in  the  leafy  lanes  behind  the  down, 
Far  as  the   portal-warding   lion-whelp, 
And  peacock-yewtree  of  the  lonely  Hall, 
Whose  Friday  fare  was  Enoch's  ministering. 

Then  came  a  change,  as  all  things  human  change. 
Ten  miles  to  northward  of  the  narrow  port 
Open'd  a  larger  haven :  thither  used 
Enoch  at  times  to  go  by  land  or  sea; 
And  once  when  there,  and  clambering  on  a  mast 
In  harbor,  by  mischance  he  slipt  and  fell: 
A  limb  was  broken  when  they  lifted  him; 
And  while  he  lay  recovering  there,  his  wife 
Bore  him  another  son,  a  sickly  one: 
Another  hand  crept  too  across  his  trade 
Taking  her  bread  and  theirs:  and  on  him  fell, 
Altho'  a  grave  and  staid  God-fearing  man, 
Yet  lying  thus  inactive,  doubt  and  gloom. 
He  seem'd,  as  in  a  nightmare  of  the  night, 
To  see  his  children  leading  evermore 
Low  miserable  lives  of  hand-to-mouth, 
And  her,  he  loved,  a  beggar:  then  he  pray'd 
"  Save  them  from  this,  whatever  comes  to  me." 
And  while  he  pray'd,  the  master  of  that  ship 
Enoch  had  served  in,  hearing  hia  mischance, 
Came,  for  he  knew  the  man  and  valued  him, 
Reporting  of  his  vessel  China-bound, 


10  ENOCH  ARDEN. 


And  wanting  yet  a  boatswain.     Would  he  go? 
There  yet  were  many  weeks  before  she  sail'd, 
Sail'd  from  this  port.     Would  Enoch  have  the  place? 
And  Enoch  all  at  once  assented  to  it, 
Rejoicing  at  that  answer  to  his  prayer. 

So  now  that  shadow  of  mischance  appear'd 
No  graver  than  as  when  some  little  cloud 
Cuts  off  the  fiery  highway  of  the  sun, 
And  isles  a  light  in  the  offing:  yet  the  wife — 
When  he  was  gone — the  children — what  to  do? 
Then  Enoch  lay  long-pondering  on  his  plans 
To  sell  the  boat — and  yet  he  loved  her  well — 
How  many  a  rough  sea  had  he  weather'd  in  her! 
He  knew  her,  as  a  horseman  knows  his  horse — 
And  yet  to  sell  her — then  with  what  she  brought 
Buy  goods  and  stores — set  Annie  forth  in  trade 
With  all  that  seamen  needed  or  their  wives — 
So  might  she  keep  the  house  while  he  was  gone. 
Should  he  not  trade  himself  out  yonder?  go 
This  voyage  more  than  once?  yea,  twice  or  thrice — 
As  oft  as  needed — last,  returning  rich, 
Become  the  master  of  a  larger  craft, 
With  fuller  profits  lead  an  easier  life, 
Have  all  his  pretty  young  ones  educated, 
And  pass  his  days  in  peace  among  his  own. 

Thus  Enoch  in  his  heart  determined  all: 
Then  moving  homeward  came  on  Annie  pale, 
Nursing  the  sickly  babe,  her  latest  born. 
Forward  she  started  with  a  happy  cry, 
And  laid  the  feeble  infant  in  his  arms; 
Whom  Enoch  took,  and  handled  all  his  limbs, 
Appraised  his  weight,  and  fondled  fatherlike, 
But  had  no  heart  to  break  his  purposes 
To  Annie,  till  the  morrow,  when  he  spoke. 

Then  first  since  Enoch's  golden  ring  had  girt 
Her  finger,  Annie  fought  against  his  will : 
Yet  not  with  brawling  opposition  she, 
But  manifold  entreaties,  many  a  tear, 
Many  a  sad  kiss  by  day  by  night  renew'd 
CSure  that  all  evil  would  come  out  of  it) 


ENOCH  AEDEM.  711 


Besought  him,  supplicating,  if  he  cared 
For  her  or  his  dear  children,  not  to  go. 
He  not  for  his  own  self  caring  but  her, 
Her  and  her  children,  let  her  plead  in  vain; 
So  grieving  held  his  will,  and  bore  it  thro'. 

For  Enoch  parted  with  his  old  sea-friend, 
Bought  Annie  goods  and  stores,  and  set  his  hand 
To  fit  their  little  streetward  sitting-room 
With  shelf  and  corner  for  the  goods  and  stores. 
So  all  day  long  till  Enoch's  last  at  home, 
Shaking  their  pretty  cabin,  hammer  and  axe, 
Auger  and  saw,  while  Annie  seem'd  to  hear 
Her  own  death-scaffold  raising,  shrilPd  and  rang, 
Till  this  was  ended,  and  his  careful  hand, — 
The  space  was  narrow, — having  ordered  all 
Almost  as  neat  and  close  as  Nature  packs 
Her  blossom  or  her  seedling,  paused;  and  he, 
Who  needs  would  work  for  Annie  to  the  last, 
Ascending  tired,  heavily  slept  till  morn. 

And  Enoch  faced  this  morning  of  farewell 
Brightly  and  boldly.     All  his  Annie's  fears, 
Save  as  his  Annie's,  were  a  laughter  to  him. 
Yet  Enoch  as  a  brave  God-fearing  man 
Bow'd  himself  down,  and  in  that  mystery 
Where  God-in-man  is  one  with  man-in-God, 
Pray'd  for  a  blessing  on  his  wife  and  babes 
Whatever  came  to  him:  and  then  he  said, 
u  Annie,  this  voyage  by  the  grace  of  God 
Will  bring  fair  weather  yet  to  all  of  us. 
Keep  a  clean  hearth  and  a  clear  fire  for  me, 
For  I'll  be  back,  my  girl,  before  you  know  it." 
Then  lightly  rocking  baby's  cradle,  "and  he, 
This  pretty,  puny,  weakly  little  one, — 
Nay — for  I  love  him  all  the  better  for  it — 
God  bless  him,  he  shall  sit  upon  my  knees 
And  I  will  tell  him  tales  of  foreign  parts, 
And  make  him  merry,  when  I  come  home  again. 
Come  Annie,  come,  cheer  up  before  I  go." 

Him  running  on  thus  hopefully  she  heard, 
And  almost  hoped  herself;  but  when  he  turn'd 


732  ENOCH  ARDEN. 


The  current  of  his  talk  to  graver  things 

In  sailor  fashion  roughly  sermonizing 

On  providence  and  trust  in  Heaven,  she  heard, 

Heard  and  not  heard  hirn;  as  the  village  girl, 

Who  sets  her  pitcher  underneath  the  spring, 

Musing  on  him  that  used  to  fill  it  for  her, 

Hears  and  not  hears,  and  lets  it  overflow. 

At  length  she  spoke,  "  O  Enoch,  you  are  wise; 
And  yet  for  all  your  wisdom  well  know  I 
That  I  shall  look  upon  your  face  no  more." 

"Well  then,"  said  Enoch,  "I  shall  look  on  yours. 
Annie,  the  ship  I  sail  in  passes  here 
(He  named  the  day)  get  you  a  seaman's  glass, 
Spy  out  my  face,  and  laugh  at  all  your  fears," 

But  when  the  last  of  those  last  moments  came, 
"  Annie,  my  girl,  cheer  up,  be  comforted, 
Look  to  the  babes,  and  till  I  come  again, 
Keep  everything  shipshape,  for  I  must  go. 
And  fear  no  more  for  me;  or  if  you  fear 
Cast  all  your  cares  on  God ;  that  anchor  holds. 
Is  He  not  yonder  in  those  uttermost 
Parts  of  the  morning?  if  I  flee  to  these 
Can  I  go  from  Him?  and  the  sea  is  His, 
The  sea  is  His :     He  made  it." 

Enoch  rose, 
Cast  his  strong  arms  about  his  drooping  wife, 
And  kiss'd  his  wonder-stricken  little  ones; 
But  for  the  third,  the  sickly  one,  who  slept 
After  a  night  of  feverous  wakefulness, 
When  Annie  would  have  raised  him  Enoch  said, 
"  Wake  him  not;  let  him  sleep;  how  should  the  child 
Remember  this? "  and  kiss'd  him  in  his  cot, 
But  Annie  from  her  baby's  forehead  dipt 
A  tiny  curl,  and  gave  it:  this  he  kept 
Thro' all  his  future;  but  now  hastily  caught 
His  bundle,  waved  his  hand,  and  went  his  way. 

She  when  the  day,  that  Enoch  mention'd,  came, 
Borrowed  a  glass,  but  all  in  vain :   perhaps 


ENOCH  ARDBN.  713 


She  could  not  fix  the  glass  to  suit  her  eye; 
Perhaps  her  eye  was  dim,  hand  tremulous; 
She  saw  him  not:  and  while  he  stood  on  deck 
Waving,  the  moment  and  the  vessel  past. 

Ev'n  to  the  last  dip  of  the  vanishing  sail 
She  watched  it,  and  departed  weeping  for  him; 
Then,  tho'  she  mourn'd  his  absence  as  his  grave, 
Set  her  sad  will  no  less  to  chime  with  his, 
But  throve  not  in  her  trade,  not  being  bred 
To  barter,  nor  compensating  the  want 
By  shrewdness,  neither  capable  of  lies, 
Nor  asking  overmuch  and  taking  less, 
And  still  foreboding  "  What  would  Enoch  say?" 
For  more  than  once,  in  days  of  difficulty 
And  pressure,  had  she  sold  her  wares  for  less 
Than  what  she  gave  in  buying  what  she  sold : 
She  fail'd,  and  sadden'd  knowing  it;  and  thus, 
Expectant  of  that  news  which  never  came, 
Gain'd  for  her  own  a  scanty  sustenance, 
And  lived  a  life  of  silent  melancholy. 

Now  the  third  child  was  sickly  born  and  grew 
Yet  sicklier,  tho'  the  mother  cared  for  it 
With  all  a  mother's  care:  nevertheless, 
Whether  her  business  often  called  her  from  it, 
Or  thro'  the  want  of  what  is  needed  most, 
Or  means  to  pay  the  voice  who  best  could  tell 
What  most  it  needed — howso'er  it  was, 
After  a  lingering, — ere  she  was  aware, — 
Like  the  caged  bird  escaping  suddenly, 
The  little  innocent  soul  flitted  away. 


In  that  same  week  when  Annie  buried  it, 
Philip's  true  heart,  which  hungered  for  her  peace 
(Since  Enoch  left  he  had  not  look'd  upon  her), 
Smote  him,  as  having  kept  aloof  so  long. 
M  Surely,"  said  Philip,  "  I  may  see  her  now, 
May  be  some  little  comfort;"  therefore  went, 
Past  thro'  the  solitary  room  in  front, 
Paused  for  a  moment  at  an  inner  door, 
Then  struck  it  thrice,  and,  no  one  opening, 
Entered;  but  Annie,  seated  with  her  grief, 


714 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Fresh  from  the  burial  of  her  little  one, 

Cared  not  to  look  on  any  human  face, 

But  turn'd  her  own  toward  the  wall  and  wept. 

Then  Philip  standing  up  said  falteringly, 

"  Annie,  I  came  to  ask  a  favor  of  you." 

He  spoke;  the  passion  in  her  moan'd  reply, 
"  Favor  from  one  so  sad  and  so  forlorn 
As  I  am!"  half  abash'd  him;  yet  unask'd, 
His  bashfulness  and  tenderness  at  war, 
He  sits  himself  beside  her,  saying  to  her: 


"  I  came  to  speak  to  you  of  what  he  wish'd, 
Enoch,  your  husband :  I  have  ever  said 
You  chose  the  best  among  us — a  strong  man: 
For  where  he  fixt  his  heart  he  set  his  hand 


ENOCH  ARDEN.  715 


To  do  the  thing  he  willed,  and  hore  it  thro'. 

And  wherefore  did  he  go  this  weary  way, 

And  leave  you  lonely?  not  to  see  the  world — 

For  pleasure? — nay,  but  for  the  wherewithal 

To  give  his  babes  a  better  bringing-up 

Than  his  had  been,  or  yours:   that  was  his  wish. 

And  if  he  comes  again,  vext  will  he  be 

To  find  the  precious  morning  hours  were  lost. 

And  it  would  vex  him  even  in  his  grave, 

If  he  could  know  his  babes  were  running  wild 

Like  colts  about  the  waste.      So,  Annie,  now — 

I  Live  we  not  known  each  other  all  our  lives? 

I  do  beseech  you  by  the  love  you  bear 

Him  and  his  children  not  to  say  me  nay — 

For,  if  you  will,  when  Enoch  comes  again 

Why  then  he  shall  repay  me — if  you  will, 

Annie — for  I  am  rich  and  well-to-do. 

Now  let  me  put  the  boy  and  girl  to  school: 

This  is  the  favor  I  came  to  ask." 

Then  Annie  with  her  brows  against  the  wall 
Answer'd,  "  I  cannot  look  you  in  the  face, 
I  seem  so  foolish  and  so  broken  down; 
When  you  came  in  my  sorrow  broke  me  down; 
And  now  I  think  your  kindness  breaks  me  down; 
But  Enoch  lives;  that  is  borne  in  on  me; 
He  will  repay  you:  money  can  be  repaid; 
Not  kindness  such  as  yours." 


"  Then  you  wi 


And  Philip  ask'd 
11  let  me,  Annie?" 


Then  she  turnM, 
She  rose  and  fixt  her  swimming  eyes  upon  him, 
And  dwelt  a  moment  on  his  kindly  face, 
Then  calling  down  a  blessing  on  his  head 
Caught  at  his  hand  and  wrung  it  passionately, 
And  past  into  the  little  garth  beyond. 
So  lifted  up  in  spirit  he  moved  away. 

Then  Philip  put  the  boy  and  girl  to  school, 
And  bought  them  needful  books,  and  every  way, 
Like  one  who  does  his  duty  by  his  own, 


716  ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Made  himself  theirs;  and  tho'  for  Annie's  sake, 
Fearing  the  lazy  gossip  of  the  port, 
He  oft  denied  his  heart  his  dearest  wish, 
And  seldom  crossed  the  threshold,  yet  he  sent 
Gifts  by  the  children,  garden-herbs  and  fruit, 
The  late  and  early  roses  from  his  wall, 
Or  conies  from  the  down,  and  now  and  then, 
With  some  pretext  of  fineness  in  the  meal 
To  save  the  offence  of  charitable,  flour 
From  his  tall  mill  that  whistled  on  the  waste. 

But  Philip  did  not  fathom  Annie's  mind: 
Scarce  could  the  woman  when  he  came  upon  her, 
Out  of  full  heart  and  boundless  gratitude 
Light  on  a  broken  word  to  thank  him  with. 
But  P-hilip  was  her  children's  all-in-all; 
From  distant  corners  of  the  street  they  ran 
To  greet  his  hearty  welcome  heartily ; 
Lords  of  his  house  and  of  his  mill  were  they; 
Worried  his  passive  ear  with  petty  wrongs 
Or  pleasures,  hung  upon  him,  play'd  with  him 
And  called  him  Father  Philip.     Philip  gained 
As  Enoch  lost;  for  Enoch  seemed  to  them 
Uncertain  as  a  vision  or  a  dream, 
Faint  as  a  figure  seen  in  early  dawn 
Down  at  the  far  end  of  an  avenue, 
Going  ye  know  not  where ;  and  so  ten  years, 
Since  Enoch  left  his  hearth  and  native  land, 
Fled  forward,  and  no  news  of  Enoch  came. 

It  chanced  one  evening  Annie's  children  long'd 
To  go  with  others,  nutting  to  the  wood, 
And  Annie  would  go  with  them ;  then  they  begg'd 
For  Father  Philip  (as  they  call'd  him)  too: 
Him  like  the  working  bee  in  blossom  dust, 
Blanch'd  with  his  mill,  they  found;  and  saying  to  him, 
"  Come  with  us  Father  Philip"  he  denied ; 
But  when  the  children  pluck'd  at  him  to  go, 
He  laugh'd,  and  yielded  readily  to  their  wish, 
For  was  not  Annie  with  them  ?  and  they  went. 

But  atter  scaling  half  the  weary  down, 
Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood  began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  all  her  force 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


717 


Fail'd  her;  and  sighing,"  Let  me  rest,"  she  said: 
So  Philip  rested  with  her  well  content: 
While  all  the  younger  ones  with  jubilant  cries 
Broke  from  their  elders,  and  tumultuously 
Down  thro'  the  whitening  hazels  made  a  plunge 
To  the  bottom,  and  dispersed,  and  bent  or  broke 
The  lithe  reluctant  boughs  to  tear  away 
Their  tawny  clusters,  crying  to  each  other, 
And  calling,  here  and  there,  about  the  wood. 


But  Philip  sitting  at  her  side  forgot 
Her  presence,  and  remember'd  one  dark  hour 
Here  in  this  wood,  when  like  a  wounded  life 
He  crept  into  the  shadow:  at  last  he  said, 
Lifting  his  honest  forehead,  "  Listen,  Annie, 
How  merry  they  are  down  yonder  in  the  wood." 
"  Tired,  Annie?"  for  she  did  not  speak  a  word. 
"  Tired?"  but  her  face  had  falPn  upon  her  hands; 
At  which,  as  with  a  kind  of  anger  in  him, 
"  The  ship  was  lost,"  he  said,  "  the  ship  was  lost! 
No  more  of  that!     Why  should  you  kill  yourself 
And  make  them  orphans  quite?"  and  Annie  said, 


718  ENOCH  ARDEN. 


"  I  thought  not  of  it:  but — I  know  not  why— 
Their  voices  make  me  feel  so  solitary." 

Then  Philip  coming  somewhat  closer  spoke. 
"Annie,  there  is  a  thing  upon  my  mind, 
And  it  has  been  upon  my  mind  so  long, 
That  tho'  I  know  not  when  it  first  came  there, 
I  know  that  it  will  out  at  last.     O  Annie, 
It  is  beyond  all  hope,  against  all  chance, 
That  he  who  left  you  ten  long  years  ago 
Should  still  be  living;  well  then — let  me  speak: 
I  grieve  to  see  you  poor  and  wanting  help 
I  cannot  help  you  as  1  wish  to  do 
Unless — they  say  that  women  are  so  quick — 
Perhaps  you  know  what  I  would  have  you  know— • 
I  wish  you  for  my  wife.     I  fain  would  prove 
A  father  to  your  children:  I  do  think 
They  love  me  as  a  father :  I  am  sure 
That  I  love  them  as  if  they  were  mine  own; 
And  I  believe,  if  you  were  fast  my  wife, 
That  after  all  these  sad  uncertain  years, 
We  might  be  still  as  happy  as  God  grants 
To  any  of  his  creatures.     Think  upon  it: 
For  I  am  well-to-do — no  kin,  no  care, 
No  burthen,  save  my  care  for  you  and  yours: 
And  we  have  known  each  other  all  our  lives, 
And  I  have  loved  you  longer  than  vou  know." 

Then  answer'd  Annie ;  tenderly  she  spoke : 
"  You  have  been  as  God's  good  angel  in  our  house. 
God  bless  you  for  it,  God  reward  you  for  it, 
Philip,  with  something  happier  than  myself. 
Can  one  love  twice  ?  can  you  be  ever  loved 
As  Enoch  was?  what  is  it  that  you  ask?" 
"  I  am  content,"  he  answer'd,  "  to  be  loved 
A  little  after  Enoch."     «  O,"  she  cried, 
Scared  as  it  were,  "dear  Philip,  wait  a  while: 
If  Enoch  comes — but  Enoch  will  not  come — 
Yet  wait  a  year,  a  year  is  not  so  long : 
Surely  I  shall  be  wiser  in  a  year : 

0  wait  a  little! "     Philip  sadly  said, 
"  Annie,  as  I  have  waited  all  my  life 

1  well  may  wait  a  little."     "  Nay,"  she  cried, 


ENOCH  ARDEN.  719 


T  am  hound:  you  have  my  promise — in  a  year: 
Will  you  not  bide  your  year  as  I  bide  mine?" 
And  Philip  answei'd,  "  I  will  bide  my  year." 

Here  both  were  mute,  till  Philip  glancing  up 
Beheld  the  dead  flame  of  the  fallen  day 
Pass  from  the  Danish  barrow  overhead ; 
Then  fearing  night  and  chill  for  Annie,  rose 
And  sent  his  voice  beneath  him  thro'  the  wood. 
Up  came  the  children  laden  with  their  spoil; 
Then  all  descended  to  the  port,  and  there 
At  Annie's  door  he  paused  and  gave  his  hand, 
Saying  gently,  "  Annie,  when  I  spoke  to  you, 
That  was  your  hour  of  weakness.     I  was  wrong, 
I  am  always  bound  to  you,  but  you  are  free.* 
Then  Annie  weeping  answer'd  "  I  am  bound." 

She  spoke;  and  in  one  moment  as  it  were, 
While  yet  she  went  about  her  household  ways, 
Ev*n  as  >he  dwelt  upon  his  latest  words, 
That  he  had  loved  her  longer  than  she  knew, 
That  autumn  into  autumn  flashed  again, 
And  there  he  stood  once  more  before  her  face, 
Claiming  her  promise.     "  Is  it  a  year?"  she  ask'd. 
"Yes,  if  the  nuts,"  he  said,  "  be  ripe  again: 
Come  out  and  see."     But  she — she  put  him  oflf— 
So  much  to  look  to — such  a  change — a  month — 
Give  her  a  month — she  knew  that  she  was  hound — 
A  month — no  more.     Then  Philip  with  his  eyes 
Full  of  that  lifelong  hunger,  and  his  voice 
Shaking  a  little  like  a  drunkard's  hand, 
"  Take  your  own  time,  Annie,  take  your  own  time." 
And  Annie  could  have  wept  for  pity  of  him; 
And  yet  she  held  him  on  delayingly 
With  many  a  scarce-believable  excuse, 
Trying  his  truth  and  his  long  sufferance 
Till  half-another  year  had  slipt  away. 

By  this  the  lazy  gossips  of  the  port, 
Abhorrent  of  a  calculation  crost, 
Began  to  chafe  as  at  a  personal  wrong. 
Some  thought  that  Philip  did  but  trifle  with  ner; 
Some  that  she  but  held  off  to  draw  him  on; 


720  ENOCH  ARDEN. 


And  others  laughed  at  her  and    Philip  too, 
As  simple  folk  that  knew  not  their  own  minds; 
And  one,  in  whom  all  evil  fancies  clung 
Like  serpent  eggs  together,  laughingly 
Would  hint  at  worse  in  either.     Her  own  son 
Was  silent,  tho'  he  often  look'd  his  wish; 
But  evermore  the  daughter  prest  upon  her 
To  wed  the  man  so  dear  to  all  of  them 
And  lift  the  household  out  of  poverty; 
And  Philip's  rosy  face  contracting  grew 
Careworn  and  wan;  and  all  these  things  fell  on  her 
Sharp  as  reproach. 

At  last  one  night  it  chanced 
That  Annie  could  not  sleep,  but  earnestly 
Pray'd  for  a  sign  "my  Enoch  is  he  gone?" 
Then  compass'd  round  by  the  blind  wall  of  night 
Brook'd  not  the  expectant  terror  of  her  heart, 
Started  from  bed,  and  struck  herself  a  light, 
Then  desperately  seized  the  holy  Book, 
Suddenly  set  it  wide  to  find  a  sign, 
Suddenly  put  her  finger  on  the  text, 
"  Under  a  palmtree."     That  was  nothing  to  her: 
No  meaning  there:  she  closed  the  book  and  slept: 
When  lo!  her  Enoch  sitting  on  a  height 
Under  a  palmtree,  over  him  the  Sun: 
"  He  is  gone,"  she  thought,  "  he  is  happy,  he  is  singing 
Hosanna  in  the  highest:  yonder  shines 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness,  and  these  be  palms 
Whereof  the  happy  people  strewing  cried 
'Hosanna  in  the  highest! '  "     Here  she  woke, 
Resolved,  sent  for  him  and  said  wildly  to  him 
"  There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  wed." 
"  Then  for  God's  sake,"  he  answer'd,  "both  our  sakes, 
So  you  will  wed  me,  let  it  be  at  once." 


So  these  were  wed  and  merrily  rang  the  bells,- 
Merrily  rang  the  bells  and  they  were  wed. 
But  never  merrily  beat  Annie's  heart. 
A  footstep  seemed  to  fall  beside  her  path, 
She  knew  not  whence;  a  whisper  on  her  ear, 
She  knew  not  what:  nor  loved  she  to  be  left 
Alone  at  home,  nor  ventured  out  alone. 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


721 


What  ailed  her  then,  that  ere  she  entered,  often 
Her  hand  dwelt  linger  ngly  on  the  latch, 
Fearing  to  enter:  Philip  thought  he  knew: 
Such  doubts  and  fears  were  common  to  her  state, 
Being  with  child:  but  when  her  child  was  born, 
Then  her  new  child  was  as  herself  renew'd, 
Then  the  new  mother  came  about  her  heart, 
Then  her  good  Philip  was  her  all-in-all, 
And  that  mysterious  instinct  wholly  died. 


And  where  was  Enoch?     Prosperously  sail'd 
The  ship  "Good  Fortune,"  tho'  at  setting  forth 
The  Biscay,  roughly  riding  eastward,  shook 
And  almost  overwhelm'd  her,  yet  unvext 
She  slipt  across  the  summer  of  the  world, 
Then  after  a  long  tumble  about  the  Cape 
And  frequent  interchange  of  foul  and  fair, 
She  passing  thro'  the  summer  world  again, 
The  breath  of  Heaven  came  continually 
And  sent  her  sweetly  by  the  golden  i-i 
Till  silent  in  her  oriental  haven. 


46 


There  Enoch  traded  for  himself,  and  bought 
Quaint  monsters  for  the  market  of  those  times, 
A  gilded  dragon,  also,  for  the  babes. 


722  ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Less  lucky  her  home-voyage:  at  first  indeed 
Thro'  many  a  fair  sea-circle,  day  by  day, 
Scarce-rocking,  her  full-busted  figure-head 
Stared  o^er  the  ripple  feathering  from  her  bows: 
Then  followed  calms,  and  then  winds  variable, 
Then  baffling,  a  long  course  of  them;  and  last 
Storm,  such  as  drove  her  under  moonless  heavens 
Till  hard  upon  the  cry  of  "  breakers  "  came 
The  crash  of  ruin,  and  the  loss  of  all 
But  Enoch  and  two  others.     Half  the  night, 
Buoy'd  upon  floating  tackle  and  broken  spars, 
These  drifted,  stranding  on  an  isle  at  morn 
Rich,  but  the  loneliest  in  a  lonely  sea. 

No  want  was  there  of  human  sustenance, 
Soft  fruitage,  mighty  nuts,  and  nourishing  roots; 
Nor  save  for  pity  was  it  hard  to  take 
The  helpless  life  so  wild  that  it  was  tame. 
There  in  a  seaward-gazing  mountain-gorge 
They  built,  and  thatched  with  leaves  of  palm,  a  hut. 
Half  hut  half  native   cavern.     So  the  three, 
Set  in  this  Eden  of  all  plenteousness, 
Dwelt  with  eternal  summer,  ill-content. 

For  one,  the  youngest,  hardly  more  than  boy, 
Hurt  in  that  night  of  sudden  ruin  and  wreck, 
Lay  lingering  out  a  five-years'  death-in-life. 
They  could  not  leave  him.     After  he  was  gone, 
The  two  remaining  found  a  fallen  stem ; 
And  Enoch's  comrade,  careless  of  himself, 
Fire-hollowing  this  in  Indian  fashion,  feil  , 
Sun-stricken,  and  that  other  lived  alone. 
In  those  two  deaths  he  read  God's  warning  "  wait/' 

The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak,  the  lawns 
And  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways  to  Heaven. 
The  slender  coco's  drooping  crown  of  plumes, 
The  lightning  flash  of  insect  and  of  bird, 
The  lustre  of  the  long  convolvuluses 
That  coil'd  around  the  stately  stems,  and  ran 
Ev'n  to  the  limit  of  the  land,  the  glows 
And  glories  of  the  broad  belt  of  the  world, 
All  these  he  saw;  but  what  he  fain  had  seen 


ENOCH  ARDEN.  723 


He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human  face, 

Nor  ever  i.eard  a  kindly  voice,  but  heard 

The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean-fowl, 

The  league-long  roller  thundering  on  the  reef, 

The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees  that  branch'd 

And  blossomed  in  the  zenith,  or  the  sweep 

Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the  w 

As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all  day  long 

Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 

A  shipwreck'd  sailor,  waiting  for  a  sail: 

No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  day 

The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 

Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and  precipices; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east; 

The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west; 

Then  the  great  stars  that  globed  themselves  in  Heaven, 

The  hollower-bellowing  ocean,  and  again 

The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise — but  no  sail. 


There  often  as  he  watchM  or  seem'd  to  watch, 
So  still,  the  golden  lizard  on  him  paused, 
A  phantom  made  of  many  phantoms  moved 
Before  him  haunting  him,  or  he  himself 
Moved  haunting  people,  things  and  places,  known 
Far  in  a  darker  isle  beyond  the  line; 
The  babes,  their  babble,  Annie,  the  small  house, 
The  climbing  street,  the  mill,  the  leafy  lanes, 
The  peacock-yewtree  and  the  lonely  Hall, 
The  horse  he  drove,  the  boat  he  sold,  the  chill 
November  dawns  and  dewy-glooming  downs, 
The  gentle  shower,  the  smell  of  dying  leaves, 
And  the  low  moan  of  leaden-color'd  seas. 

Once  likewise,  in  the  ringing  of  his  ears, 
Tho1  faintly,  merrily — far  and  far  away  — 
He  heard  the  pealing  of  his  parish  hells; 
Then,  tho'  he  knew  not  wherefore,  started  up 
Shuddering,  and  when  the  beauteous  hateful  isle 
Returned  upon  him,  had  not  his  poor  heart 
Spoken  with  That,  which  being  everywhere 
Lets  none,  who  speaks  with  Him,  seem  all  alone, 
Surely  the  man  had  died  of  solitude. 


724 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Thus  over  Enoch's  early-silvering  head 
The  sunny  and  rainy  seasons  came  and  went 
Year  after  year.     His  hopes  to  see  his  own, 
And  pace  the  sacred  old  familiar  fields, 
Not  yet  had  perish'd,  when  his  lonely  doom 
Came  suddenly  to  an  end.     Another  ship 
(She  wanted  water)  blown  by  baffling  winds, 
Like  the  Good  Fortune,  from  her  destined  course, 
Stay'd  by  this  isle,  not  knowing  where  she  lay: 
For  since  the  mate  had  seen  at  early  dawn 
Across  a  break  on  the  mist-wreathen  isle 
The  silent  water  slipping  from  the  hills, 
They  sent  a  crew  that  landing  burst  away 
In  search  of  stream  or  fount,  and  filPd  the  shores 
With  clamor.     Downward  from  his  mountain  gorge 


ENOCH  ARDEN.  725 


Stept  the  long-hair'd  long-bearded  solitary, 
Brown,  looking  hardly  human,  strangely  clad, 
Muttering  and  mumbling,  idiotlike  ii  seem'd, 

With  inarticulate  rage,  and  making  signs 

They  knew  not  what:  and  yet  he  led  the  way 
To  where  the  rivulets  of  sweet  water  ran; 
And  ever  as  he  mingled  with  the  crew. 
And  heard  them  talking,  his  long-bounden  tongue 
Was  loosened,  till  he  made  them  understand: 
Whom,  when  their  casks  were  Ml  I'd  they  took  aboard. 
And  there  the  tnle  he  utterM  brokenly, 
Scarce-credited  at  first  but  more  and  more, 
Amazed  and  melted  all  who  listen'd  to  it: 
And  clothes  they  gave  him  and  free  passage  home; 
But  oft  he  worked  among  the  rest  and  shook 
His  isolation  from  him.     None  of  these 
Came  from  his  country,  or  could  answer  him, 
If  questioned,  aught  of  what  he  cared  to  know. 
And  dull  the  voyage  was  with  long  delays, 
The  vessel  scarce  sea-worthy;  but  evermore 
Hi-  fancy  fled  before  the  lazy  wind 
Returning,  till  beneath  a  clouded  moon 
He  like  a  lover  down  thro'  all  his  blood 
Drew  in  the  dewy  meadowy  morning-breath 
Of  England,  blown  across  her  ghostly  wall: 
And  that  same  morning  officers  and  men 
Levied  a  kindly  tax  upon  themselves, 
Pitying  the  lonely  man,  and  gave  him  it: 
Then  moving  up  the  coast  they  landed  him, 
Ev'n  in  that  harbor  whence  he  sail'd  before. 

There  Enoch  spoke  no  word  to  any  one, 
But  homeward — home — what  home?  had  he  a  home? 
His  home,  lie  walked.     Bright  was  that   afternoon, 
Sunny  but  chill;  till  drawn  thro'  either  chasm, 
Where  either  haven  opcnM  on  the  deeps, 
Roll'd  a  sea-haze  and  whelm'd  the  world  in  gray: 
Cut  off  the  length  of  highway  on  before, 
And  left  but  narrow  breadth  to  left  and  right 
Of  withered  holt  or  tilth  or  pastura 
On  the  nigh-naked  tree  the  Robin  piped 
conaolate,  and  thro'  the  dripping  haze 
The  dead  weight  of  the  dead  leaf  bore  it  down: 
Thicker  the  drizzle  grew,  deeper  the  gloom; 


726  ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Last,  as  it  seem'd,  a  great  mist-blotted  light 
Flared  on  him,  and  he  came  upon  the  place. 

Then  down  the  long  street  having  slowly  stolen. 
His  heart  foreshadowing  all  calamity, 
His  eyes  upon  the  stones,  he  reached  the  home 
Where  Annie  lived  and  loved  him,  and  his  babes 
In  those  far-off  seven  happy  years  were  born; 
But  finding  neither  light  nor  murmur  there 
(A  bill  of  sale  gleamed  thro'  the  drizzle)  crept 
Still  downward  thinking  "dead  or  dead  to  me!  " 

Down  to  the  pool  and  narrow  wharf  he  went, 
Seeking  a  tavern  which  of  old  he  knew, 
A  front  of  timber-crost  antiquity, 
So  propt,  worm-eaten,  ruinously  old, 
He  thought  it  must  have  gone;  but  he  was  gone 
Who  kept  it:  and  his  widow,  Miriam  Lane, 
With  daily-dwindling  profits  held  the  house; 
A  haunt  of  brawling  seamen  once,  but  now 
Stiller,  with  yet  a  bed  for  wandering  men. 
There  Enoch  rested  silent  many  days. 

But  Miriam  Lane  was  good  and  garrulous, 
Nor  let  him  be,  but  often  breaking  in, 
Told  him,  with  other  annals  of  the  port, 
Not  knowing — Enoch  was  so  brown,  so  bow'd, 
So  broken — all  the  story  of  his  house. 
His  baby's  death,  her  growing  poverty, 
How  Philip  put  her  little  ones  to  school, 
And  kept  them  in  it,  his  long  wooing  her, 
Her  slow  consent,  and  marriage,  and  the  birth 
Of  Philip's  child:  and  o'er  his  countenance 
No  shadow  past,  nor  motion ;  any  one, 
Regarding,  well  had  deem'd  he  felt  the  tale 
Less  than  the  teller:   only  when  she  closed, 
"  Enoch,  poor  man,  was  cast  away  and  lost " 
He  shaking  his  gray  head  pathetically, 
Repeated  muttering  «  Cast  away  and  lost;" 
Again  in  deeper  inward  whispers  "  Lost!" 

But  Enoch  yearn'd  to  see  her  face  again; 
"  If  I  might  look  on  her  sweet  face  again 
And  know  that  she  is  happy."     So  the  thought 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


721 


Haunted  and  harass'd  him,  and  drove  him  forth 
At  evening  when  the  dull  November  day 
Was  growing  duller  twilight,  to  the  hill. 
There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below: 
There  did  a  thousand  memories  roll  upon  him, 
Unspeakable  for  sadness.     By  and  by 
The  ruddy  square  of  comfortable  light, 
Far-blazing  from  the  rear  of  Philip's  house, 
Allured  him,  as  the  beacon-blaze  allures 
The  bird  of  passage,  till  he  madly  strikes 
Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary  life. 

For  Philip's  dwelling  fronted  on  the  street, 
The  latest  house  to  landward;  but  behind, 
With  one  small  gate  that  open'd  on  the  waste, 
Flourish'd  a  little  garden  square  and  wall'd: 
And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 
A  yewtree,  and  all  round  it  ran  a  walk 
Of  shingle,  and  a  walk  divided  it: 
But  Enoch  shunn'd  the  middle  walk  and  stole 
Up  by  the  wall,  behind  the  yew;  and  thence 
That  which  he  better  might  have  shunn'd,  if  griefs 
Like  his  have  worse  or  better,  Enoch  saw. 

For  cups  and  silver  on  the  burnish'd  board 
Sparkled  and  shone:  so  genial  was  the  hearth; 
And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times, 
Stout,  rosy,  with  his  babe  across  his  knees; 
And  o'er  her  second  father  stoopt  a  g\r\i 
A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Lee, 
Fair-hair'd  and  tall,  and  from  her  lifted  hand 
Dangled  a  length  of  ribbon  and  a  ring 
To  tempt  the  babe,  who  rear'd  his  creasy  arms, 
Caught  at  and  ever  miss'd  it,  and  they  laugh'd: 
And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
The  mother  glancing  often  towards  her  babe, 
But  turning  now  and  then  to  speak  with  him, 
Her  son,  who  stood  before  her  tall  and  strong, 
And  saying  that  which  pleased  him,  for  he  smiled. 

Now  when  the  dead  man  come  to  life  beheld 
His  wife  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the  babe. 
Hers,  yet  not  his,  upon  the  father's  knee, 


728  ENOCH  ARDEN. 


And  all  the  warmth,  the  peace,  the  happiness, 
And  his  own  children  tall  and  beautiful, 
And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in  his  place, 
Lord  of  his  rights  and  of  his  children's  love, — 
Then  he,  tho'  Miriam  Lane  had  told  him  all, 
Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than  things  heard, 
Stagger'd  and  shook,  holding  the  branch,  and  fear'd 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  terrible  cry, 
Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast  of  doom, 
Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the  hearth. 

He  therefore  turning  softly  like  a  thief, 
Lest  the  "harsh  shingle  should  grate  underfoot, 
And  feeling  all  along  the  garden-wall, 
Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and  be  found, 
Crept  to  the  gate,  and  open'd  it,  and  closed, 
As  lightly  as  a  sick-man's  chamber-door, 
Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the  waste. 

And  there  he  would  have  knelt,  but  that  his  knees 
Were  feeble,  so  that  falling  prone  he  dug 
His  fingers  into  the  wet  earth,  and  pray'd. 

"  Too  hard  to  bear!  why  did  they  take  me  thence? 
O  God  Almighty,  blessed  Saviour,  Thou 
That  didst  uphold  me  on  my  lonely  isle, 
Uphold  me,  Father,  in  my  loneliness 
A  little  longer!  aid  me,  give  me  strength, 
Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know. 
Help  me  not  to  break  in  upon  her  peace. 
My  children  too!  must  I  not  speak  to  these? 
They  know  me  not.     I  should  betray  myself. 
Never:  no  father's  kiss  for  me,— the  girl 
So  like  her  mother,  and  the  boy,  my  son." 

There  speech  and  thought  and  nature  fail'd  a  little, 
And  he  lay  tranced :  but  when  he  rose  and  paced 
Back  toward  his  solitary  home  again, 
All  down  the  narrow  street  he  went 
Beating  it  in  upon  his  weary  brain, 
As  tho'  ft  were  the  burthen  of  a  song, 
«  Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know," 


ENOCH  ARDEN.  729 

He  was  not  all  unhappy.     His  resolve 
Upbore  him,  and  firm  faith,  and  evermore 
Prayer  from  a  living  source  within  the  will, 
And  beating  up  thro'   all  the  bitter  world, 
Like  fountains  of  sweet  water  in  the  sea, 
Kept  him  a  living  soul.     "  This  miller's  wife," 
He  said  to  Miriam,  "  that  you  told  me  of, 
Has  she  no  fear  that  her  first  husband  lives? " 
"  Ay,  ay,  poor  soul,"  said  Miriam,  "  fear  enow! 
If  you  could  tell  her  you  had  seen  him  dead, 
Why,  that  would  be  her  comfort:  "  and  he  thought, 
"  After  the  Lord  has  call'd  me  she  shall  know, 
I  wait  his  time,"  and  Enoch  set  himself, 
Scorning  an  alms,  to  work  whereby  to  live. 
Almost  to  all  things  could  he  turn  his  hand. 
Cooper  he  was  and  carpenter,  and  wrought 
To  make  the  boatmen  fishing- nets,  or  help'd 
At  lading  and  unlading  the  tall  barks, 
That  brought  the  stinted  commerce  of  those  days: 
Thus  earn'd  a  scanty  living  for  himself: 
Yet  since  he  did  but  labor  for  himself, 
Work  without  hope,  there  was  not  life  in  it 
Whereby  the  man  could  live ;  and  as  the  year 
Roll'd  itself  round  again  to  meet  the  day 
When  Enoch  had  returned,  a  languor  came 
Upon  him,  gentle  sickness,  gradually 
Weakening  the  man,  till  he  could  do  no  more, 
But  kept  the  house,  his  chair,  and  last  his  bed. 
And  Enoch  bore  his  weakness  cheerfully. 
For  sure  no  gladlier  does  the  stranded  wreck 
See  thro'  the  gray  skirts  of  a  lifting  squall 
The  boat  that  bears  the  hope  of  life  approach 
To  save  the  life  despaired  of,  than  he  saw 
Death  dawning  on  him,  and  the  close  of  all. 

For  thro'  that  dawning  gleam'd  a  kindlier  hope 
On  Enoch  thinking,  "  After  I  am  gone, 
Then  may  she  learn  I  loved  her  to  the  last." 
He  call'd  aloud  for  Miriam  Lane  and  said, 
**  Woman,  I  have  a  secret — only  swear, 
Before  I  tell  you — swear  upon  the  book 
Not  to  reveal  it,  till  you  see  me  dead." 
"  Dead,"  clamor'd  the  good  woman,  "  hear  him  talk! 
I  warrant,  man,  that  we  shall  bring  you  round." 


730 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


"  Swear,"  added  Enoch,  sternly,  "  on  the  book.' 
And  on  the  book,  ha  If- frighted,  Miriam  swore. 


Then  Enoch,  rolling  his  gray  eyes  upon  her, 

"  Did  3'ou  know  Enoch  Arden  of  this  town  ?  " 

u  Know  him?  "  she  said,  "  I  knew  him  far  away, 

Ay,  ay,  I  mind  him  coming  down  the  street; 

Held  his  head  high,  and  cared  for  no  man,  he." 

Slowly  and  sadly  Enoch  answer'd  her: 

"His  head  is  low,  and  no  man  cares  for  him. 

I  think  I  have  not  three  days  more  to  live ; 

I  am  the  man."     At  which  the  woman  gave 

A  half-incredulous,  half-hysterical  cry. 

"  You  Arden,  you !  nay, — sure  he  was  a  foot 

Higher  than  you  be."     Enoch  said  again, 

u  My  God  has  bow'd  me  down  to  what  I  am ; 

My  grief  and  solitude  have  broken  me ; 

Nevertheless,  know  you  that  I  am  he 

Who  married — but  that  name  has  twice  been  changed— 

I  married  her  who  married  Philip  Ray. 

Sit,  listen."     Then  he  told  her  of  his  voyage, 


ENOCH  ARDEN.  781 


His  wreck,  his  lonely  life,  his  coming  back, 

using  in  on  Annie,  his  resolve, 
And  how  he  kept  it.     As  the  woman  heard, 
Fast  flow'd  the  current  of  her  easy  tears, 
While  in  her  heart  she  yearn'd  incessantly 
To  rush  abroad  all  round  the  little  haven, 
Proclaiming  Enoch  Arden  and  his  woes; 
But  awed  and  promise-bounden  she  forebore, 
Saying  only,  "  See  your  bairns  before  you  go! 
Eh,  let  me  fetch  'm,  Arden,"   and  arose 
Eager  to  bring  them  down,  for  Enoch  hung 
A  moment  on  her  words,  but  then  replied : 

tt  Woman,  disturb  me  not  now  at  the  last, 
But  let  me  hold  my  purpose  till  I  die. 
Sit  down  again;  mark  me  and  understand, 
While  I  have  power  to  speak.     I  charge  you  now, 
When  you  shall  see  her,  tell  her  that  I  died 
Blessing  her,  praying  for  her,  loving  her; 
Save  for  the  bar  between  us,  loving  her 
As  when  she  laid  her  head  beside  my  own. 
And  tell  my  daughter  Annie,  whom  I  saw 
So  like  her  mother,  that  my  latest  breath 
Was  spent  in  blessing  her  and  praying  for  her. 
And  tell  my  son  that  I  died  blessing  him, 
And  say  to  Philip  that  I  blest  him  too, 
He  never  meant  us  anything  but  good. 
But  if  my  children  car©  to  see  me  dead, 
Who  hardly  knew  me  living,  let  them  come, 
I  am  their  father;  but  she  must  not  come, 
For  my  dead  face  would  vex  her  after-life. 
And  now  there  is  but  one  of  all  my  blood, 
Who  will  embrace  me  in  the  world-to-be: 
This  hair  is  his:  she  cut  it  off  find  gave  it, 
And  I  have  borne  it  with  me  all  these  yea> 
And  thought  to  bear  it  with  me  to  my  grave: 
But  now  my  mind  is  changed,  for  I  shall  see  him. 
My  babe  in  bliss:  wherefore  when  I  am  gone, 
Take,  give  her  this,  for  it  may  comfort  her: 
it  will  moreover  be  a  token  to  her, 
That  I  am  he." 

He  ceased;  and  Miriam  Lane 
Made  such  a  voluble  answer  promising  all, 


732 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


That  once  again  he  roll'd  his  eyes  upon  her 
Repeating  all  he  wish'd,  and  once  again 
She  promised. 

Then  the  third  night  after  this, 
While  Enoch  slumber'd  motionless  and  pale, 
And  Miriam  watch'd  and  dozed  at  intervals, 
There  came  so  loud  a  calling  of  the  sea, 
That  all  the  houses  in  the  haven  rang. 
He  woke,  he  rose,  he  spread  his  arms  abroad 
Crying  with  a  loud  voice  "  A  sail !  a  sail ! 
I  am  saved; "  and  so  fell  back  and  spoke  no  more. 


So  past  the  strong  heroic  soul  away. 
And  when  they  buried  him  the  little  port 
Had  seldom  seen  a  costlier  funeral. 


^Jk^mOmrngk.  JmmA 


PL^16*?'  P0% 


ATLMER'S  FIELD. 


73f 


ATLMER'S  FIELD. 


1793- 


UST  are  our  frames:  and,  gilded  dust,  our  pride 
Looks  only  for  a  moment  whole  and  sound; 
Like  that  long* buried  body  of  the  king, 

Found  lying  with  his  urns  and  ornaments. 

Which  at  a  touch  of  light,  an  air  of  heaven, 

Slipt  into  ashes  and  was  found  no  more. 


Here  is  a  story  which  in  rougher  shape 
Came  from  a  grizzled  cripple,  whom  I  saw 
Sunning  himself  in  a  waste  field  alone — 
Old,  and  a  mine  of  memories — who  had  served} 
Long  since,  a  bygone  Rector  of  the  place, 
And  been  himself  a  part  or  what  he  told. 

Sir  Aylmer  Ayi.mkk,  that  almighty  man, 
The  county  God — in  whose  capacious  Hall, 
Hung  with  a  hundred  shields,  the  family  tree 
Sprang  from  the  midriff  of  a  prostrate  king — 
Whose  blazing  wyvern  weathercock'd  the  spire, 
Stood  from  his  walls  and  wing'd  his  entry-g! 
And  swang  besides  on  many  a  windy  sign — 
Whose  eyes  from  under  a  pyramidal  head 
Saw  from  his  windows  nothing  save  his  own — 
What  lovelier  of  his  own  had  he  than  her, 
His  only  child,  his  Edith,  whom  he  loved 
As  heiress  and  not  heir  regretfully? 
But  u  he  that  marries  her  marries  her  name  " 
This  fiat  somewhat  soothed  himself  and  wife, 
His  wife  a  faded  beauty  of  the  Baths, 
Insipid  as  the  Queen  upon  a  card; 
Her  all  of  thought  and  bearing  hardly  more 
Than  his  own  shadow  in  a  sickly  sun. 


A  land  of  hops  and  poppy-mingled  corn, 
Littie  about  it  stirring  save  a  brook! 


736  ATLMER'S  FIELD. 

A  sleepy  land  where  under  the  same  wheel 

The  same  old  rut  would  deepen  year  by  year; 

Where  almost  all  the  village  had  one  name; 

Where  Aylmer  follow'd  Aylmer  at  the  Hall 

And  Averill  Averill  at  the  Rectory 

Thrice  over;  so  that  Rectory  and  Hall, 

Bound  in  an  immemorial  intimacy, 

Were  open  to  each  other;  tho'  to  dream 

That  Love  could  bind  them  closer  well  had  made 

The  hoar  hair  of  the  Baronet  bristle  up 

With  horror,  worse  than  had  he  heard  his  priest 

Preach  an  inverted  Scripture,  sons  of  men 

Daughters  of  God;  so  sleepy  was  the  land. 


And  might  not  Averill,  had  he  will'd  it  so, 
Somewhere  beneath  his  own  low  range  of  roofs, 
Have  also  set  his  many-shielded  tree? 
There  was  an  Aylmer- Averill  marriage  once, 
When  the  red  rose  is  redder  than  itself, 
And  York's  white  rose  as  red  as  Lancaster's, 
With  wounded  peace  which  each  had  prick 'd  to  death. 
"  Not  proven,"   Averill  said,  or  laughingly, 
"  Some  other  race  of  Averills  " — prov'n  or  no, 
What  cared  he?  what,  if  other  or  the  same? 
He  lean'd  not  on  his  fathers  but  himself. 
But  Leolin,  his  brother,  living  oft 
With  Averill,  and  a  year  or  two  before 
Call'd  to  the  bar,  but  ever  call'd  away 
By  one  low  voice  to  one  dear  neighborhood, 
Would  often,  in  his  walks  with  Edith,  claim 
A  distant  kinship  to  the  gracious  blood 
That  shook  the  heart  of  Edith  hearing  him. 


ATLMER'S  FIELD.  78' 


Sanguine  he  was;  a  but  less  vivid  hue 
Than  of  that  islet  in  the  chestnut-bloom 
Flamed  in  his  cheek;  and  eager  eyes,  that  still 
Took  joyful  note  of  all  things  joyful,  beam'd, 
Beneath  a  manelike  mass  of  rolling  gold, 
Their  best  and  brightest,  when  they  dwelt  on  hers: 
Edith,  whose  pensive  beauty,  perfect  else, 
But  subject  to  the  season  or  the  mood, 
Shone  like  a  mystic  star  between  the  less 
And  greater  glory  varying  to  and  fro, 
We  know  not  wherefore;  bounteously  made, 
And  yet  so  finely,  that  a  troublous  touch 
Thinn'd,  or  would  seem  to  thin  her  in  a  day, 
A  joyous  to  dilate,  as  toward  the  light. 
And  these  had  been  together  from  the  first. 
Leolin's  first  nurse  was,  five  years  after,  hers: 
So  much  the  boy  foreran;  but  when  his  date 
Doubled  her  own,  for  want  of  playmates,  he 
(Since  Averill  was  a  decade  and  a  half 
His  elder,  and  their  parents  underground) 
Had  tost  his  ball  and  flown  his  kite,  and  roll'd 
His  hoop  to  pleasure  Edith,  with  her  dipt 
Against  the  rush  of  the  air  in  the  prone  swing, 
Made  blossom-ball  or  daisy  chain,  arrang'd 
Her  garden,  sow'd  her  name  and  kept  it  green 
In  living  letters,  told  her  fairy-tales, 
Show'd  her  the  fairy  footings  on  the  grass, 
The  little  dells  of  cowslip,  fairy  palms, 
The  petty  marestail  forest,  fairy  pines, 
Or  from  the  tiny  pitted  target  blew 
What  look'd  a  flight  of  fairy  arrows  aimM 
All  at  one  mark,  all  hitting:  make-believes 
For  Edith  and  himself:  or  else  he  forged, 
But  that  was  later,  boyish  histories 
Of  battle,  bold  adventure,  dungeon,  wreck, 
Flights,  terrors,  sudden  rescues,  and  true  love 
Crown'd  after  trial;  sketches  rude  and  faint, 
But  where  a  passion  yet  unborn  perhaps 
Lay  hidden  as  the  music  of  the  moon 
Sleeps  in  the  plain  eggs  of  the  nightingale. 
And  thus  together,  save  for  college-times 
Or  Temple-eaten  terms,  a  couple,  fair 
As  ever  painter  painted,  poet  sang, 
Or  Heav'n  in  lavish  bounty  moulded,  grew. 
And  more  and  more,  the  maiden  woman-grown, 
47 


738  ATLMERS  FIELD. 


He  wasted  hours  with  Averill;  there,  when  first 

The  tented  winter-field  was  broken  up 

Into  that  phalanx  of  the  summer  spears 

That  soon  should  wear  the  garland ;  there  again 

When  burr  and  bine  were  gather'd :  lastly  there 

At  Christmas;  ever  welcome  at  the  Hall, 

On  whose  dull  sameness  his  full  tide  of  youth 

Broke  with  a  phosphorescence  cheering  even 

My  lady;  and  the  Baronet  yet  had  laid 

No  bar  between  them :  dull  and  self-involv'd, 

Tall  and  erect,  but  bending  from   his  height 

With  half-allowing  smiles  for  all  the  world, 

And  mighty  courteous  in  the  main — his  pride 

Lay  deeper  than  to  wear  it  as  his  ring — 

He,  like  an  Aylmer  in  his  Aylmerism, 

Would  care  no  more  for  Leolin's  walking  with  her 

Than  for  his  old  Newfoundland's,  when  they  ran 

To  loose  him  at  the  stables,  for  he  rose 

Twofooted  at  the  limit  of  his  chain, 

Roaring  to  make  a  third:  and  how  should  Love, 

Whom  the  cross-lightnings  of  four  chance-met  eyes 

Flash  into  fiery  life  from  nothing,  follow 

Such  dear  familiarities  of  dawn? 

Seldom,  but  when  he  does,  master  of  all. 

So  these  young  hearts  not  knowing  that  they  loved, 
Not  she  at  least,  nor  conscious  of  a  bar 
Between  them,  nor  by  plight  or  broken  ring 
Bound,  but  an  immemorial  intimacy, 
Wander'd  at  will,  but  oft  accompanied 
By  Averill:  his,  a  brother's  love,  that  hung 
With  wings  of  brooding  shelter  o'er  her  peace, 
Might  have  been  other,  save  for  Leolin's — 
Who  knows?  but  so  they  wander'd,  hour  by  hour 
Gather'd  the  blossom  that  rebloom'd,  and  drank 
The  magic  cup  that  fill'd  itself  anew. 

A  whisper  half  reveal'd  her  to  herself. 
For  out  beyond  her  lodges,  where  the  brook 
Vocal-,  with  here  and  there  a  silence,  ran 
By  sallowy  rims,  arose  the  laborers'  homes, 
A  frequent  haunt  of  Edith,  on  low  knobs 
That  dimpling  died  into  each  other,  huts 
At  random  scatter'd,  each  a  nest  in  bloom. 


ATLMEKS  FIELD. 


.39 


Her  art,  her  hand,  her  counsel  all  had  wrought 
About  them:   here  was  one  that,  summer-blanch'd, 
Was  parcel-bearded  with  the  traveller's  joy 

In  Autumn,  parcel  ivy-clad;  ami  In 

The  warm-blue  breathings  of  a  hidden  hearth 

Broke  from  a  bower  of  vine  and  honeysuckle: 

One  look'd  all  rosetree,  and  another  wore 

A  close-set  robe  of  jasmine  sown  with  stars: 

This  had  a  rosy  sea  of  gilly-flowi  i  s 

About  it:   this  a  milky-way  on  earth, 

Like  visions  in  the  Northern  dreamer's  heavens, 

A  lily-avenue  climbing  to  the  doors; 

One,  almost  to  the  martin-haunted  eaves 

A  summer  burial  deep  in  hollyhock; 


Each,  its  own  charm;  and  Edith's  everywhere; 
And  Edith  ever  visitant  with  him, 
He  but  less  loved  than  Edith,  of  her  poor: 
For  she,  so  lowly-lovely  and  so  loving, 
Queenly  responsive  when  the  loyal  hand 
Rose  from  the  clay  it  workM  in  as  she  past, 
Not  sowing  hedgerow  texts  »nd  passing  by, 
Nor  dealing  goodly  counsel  from  a  height 


140  ATLMER'S  FIELD. 


That  makes  the  lowest  hate  it,  but  a  voice 
Of  comfort  and  an  open  hand  of  help, 
A  splendid  presence  flattering  the  poor  roofs 
Revered  as  theirs,  but  kindlier  than  themselves 
To  ailing  wife  or  wailing  infancy 
Or  old  bedridden  palsy, — was  adored; 
He,  loved  for  her  and  for  himself.     A  grasp 
Having  the  warmth  and  muscle  of  the  heart, 
A  childly  way  with  children,  and  a  laugh 
Ringing  like  proven  golden  coinage  true, 
Were  no  false  passport  to  that  easy  realm, 
Where  once  with  Leolin  at  her  side  the  girl, 
Nursing  a  child,  and  turning  to  the  warmth 
The  tender  pink  five-beaded  baby-soles, 
Heard  the  good  mother  softly  whisper  "  Bless, 
God  bless  'em;  marriages  are  made  irrHeaven." 

A  flash  of  semi-jealousy  clear'd  it  to  her. 
My  lady's  Indian  kinsman  unannounc'd 
With  half  a  score  of  swarthy  faces  came. 
His  own,  tho'  keen  and  bold  and  soldierly, 
Sear'd  by  the  close  ecliptic,  was  not  fair; 
Fairer  his  talk,  a  tongue  that  ruled  the  hour, 
Tho'  seeming  boastful:  so  when  first  he  dash'd 
Into  the  chronicle  of  a  deedful  day, 
Sir  Aylmer  half  forgot  his  lazy  smile 
Of  patron  "  Good !  my  lady's  kinsman,  good !  " 
My  lady  with  her  fingers  interlock'd, 
And  rotatory  thumbs  on  silken  knees, 
Call'd  all  her  vital  spirits  into  each  ear 
To  listen:  unawares  they  flitted  off, 
Busying  themselves  about  the  flowerage 
That  stood  from  out  a  stiff  brocade  in  which, 
The  meteor  of  a  splendid  season,  she, 
Once  with  this  kinsman,  ah  so  long  ago, 
Steptthro'  the  stately  minuet  of  those  days: 
But  Edith's  eager  fancy  hurried  with  him 
Snatch'd  thro'  the  perilous  passes  of  his  life: 
Till  Leolin  ever  watchful  of  her  eye 
Hated  him  with  a  momentary  hate. 
Wife-hunting,  as  the  rumor  ran,  was  he : 
I  know  not,  for  he  spoke  not,  only  shower'd 
His  oriental  gifts  on  every  one, 
And  most  on  Edith:  like  a  storm  he  came, 
And  shook  the  house,  and  like  a  storm  he  went. 


Ai/LMEtVS  FIELD.  741 


Among  the  gifts  he  left  her  (possibly 
He  flow'd  and  ebb'd   uncertain,  to  return 
When  others  had  been  tested)  there  was  one, 
A  dagger,  in  rich  sheatli  with  jewels  on  it 
Sprinkled  about  in  gold  that  branched  itself 
Fine  as  ice-ferns  on  January  panes 
Made  by  a  breath.     I  know  not  whence  at  first, 
Nor  of  what  race,  the  work;  but  as  he  told 
The  story,  storming  a  hill-fort  of  thieves 
He  got  it;  for  their  captain  after  fight, 
1  li-  comrades  haying  fought  their  last  below, 
\V:i-  climbing  up  the  valley;  at  whom  he  shot: 
Down  from  the  beetling  crag  to  which  he  clung 
Tumbled  the  tawny  rascal  at  his  feet, 
This  dagger  with  him,  which  when  now   adinir'd 
By  Edith,  whom  his  pleasure  was  to  pie. 
At  once  the  costly  Sahib  yielded  to  her. 

And  Leolin,  coming  after  be  was  gone, 
Tost  over  all  her  presents  petulantly: 
And  when  she  show'd  the  wealthy  scabbard,  saying 
"Look  what  a  lovely  piece  of  workmanship! " 
Slight  was  liis  answer,  "  Well — I  care  not  for  it;" 
Then  playing  with  the  blade  he  prick'd  bis  hand, 
"  A  gracious  gift  to  give  a  lady,  tin 
"But  would  it  be  more  gracious,"  ask\l  the  girl, 
"  Were  I  to  give  this  gifl  of  his  to  one 
That  is  no  lady?"     "  Gracious?     No,"  said  he. 
««  Me! — but  I  cared  not  for  it.     O  pardon  me, 
I  seem  to  be  ungraciousness  itself." 
"Take  it,"  she  added  sweetly,  "tho'  his  gift; 
For  I  am  more  ungracious  e'en  than  you, 

ire  not  for  it  either;"  and  he  said 
"  Why  then  I  love  it :  n  but  Sir  Aylmer  past, 
And  neither  loved  nor  liked  the  thing  he  heard. 

The  next  day  came  a  neighbor.     Blues  and  redi 
They  talk'd  of:  blues  were  sure  of  it,  he  thought; 
Then  of  the  latest  fox — where  started — kill'd 
In  such  ;i  bottom:   "  Peter  bad  the  brush, 
My  Peter,  first:"   and  did  Sir  Aylmer  know 
That  great  pock-pit  ten  fellow  had  been  caught? 
Then  made  his  pleasure  echo,  band  to  hand, 
And  rolling  as  it  were  the  substance  of  it 


742  ATLMER'S  FIELD. 


Between  his  palms  a  moment  up  and  down — 

"  The  birds  were  warm,  the  birds  were  warm  upon  him; 

We  have  him  now;"   and  had  Sir  Aylmer  heard — 

Nay,  but  he  must — the  land  was  ringing  of  it — 

This  blacksmith-border  marriage — one  they  knew — 

Raw  from  the  nursery — who  could  trust  a  child? 

That  cursed  France  with  her  egalities! 

And  did  Sir  Aylmer  (deferentially 

With  nearing  chair  and  lower'd  accent)  think — 

For  people  talk'd — that  it  was  wholly  wise 

To  let  that  handsome  fellow  Averill  walk 

So  freely  with  his  daughter?  people  talk'd — 

The  boy  might  get  a  notion  into  him ; 

The  girl  might  be  entangled  ere  she  knew. 

Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer  slowly  stiffening — spoke: 

"The  girl  and  boy,  sir,  know  their  differences!" 

"  Good,"  said  his  friend,  "  but  watch!  "  and  he  "  Enough, 

More  than  enough,  Sir!     I  can  guard  my  own." 

They  parted,  and  Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer  watch'd. 

Pale,  for  on  her  the  thunders  of  the  house 
Had  fallen  first,  was  Edith  that  same  night ; 
Pale  as  the  Jephtha's  daughter,  a  rough  piece 
Of  early  rigid  color,  under  which, 
Withdrawing  by  the  counter  door  to  that 
Which  Leolin  open'd,  she  cast  back  upon  him 
\  piteous  glance,  and  vanish'd.     He,  as  one 
^Caught  in  a  burst  of  unexpected  storm, 
And  pelted  with  outrageous  epithets, 
Turning  beheld  the  Powers  of  the  House 
On  either  side  the  hearth,  indignant;  her, 
Cooling  her  false  cheek  with  a  feather-fan, 
Him  glaring,  by  his  own  stale  devil  spurr'd, 
And,  like  a  beast  hard-ridden,  breathing  hard. 
"  Ungenerous,  dishonorable,  base, 
Presumptuous!  trusted  as  he  was  with  her, 
The  sole  succeeder  to  their  wealth,  their  lands, 
The  last  remaining  pillar  of  their  house, 
The  one  transmitter  of  their  ancient  name, 
Their  child.      «  Our  child!  "      "  Our  heiress!"      "  Ours! "   for 

still, 
Like  echoes  from  beyond  a  hollow,  came 
Her  sicklier  iteration.     Last  he  said 
"  Boy,  mark  me !  for  your  fortunes  are  to  make. 
I  swear  you  shall  not  make  them  out  of  mine. 


ATL^ER\S   FIELD.  743 


Now  inasmuch  as  you  have  practised  on  her, 

Perplex!  her,  made  her  half  forget   herself 

Swerve  from  her  duty  to  herself  and  us — 

Things  in  an  Aylraer  deem'a  impossil 

Fat  as  we  track  ourselves     I  say  that  this, — 

Else  I  withdraw  favor  and  countenance 

Prom  you  and  yours  forever — shall  you  do. 

Sir,  when  you  see  her — but  you  shall  not  see  her — 

>u  shall  write,  and  not  to  her,  hut  me: 
And  you  shall  say  that  having  spoken    with  me, 
And  after  look'd  into  yourself,  you  find 
That  you  meant  nothing — as  indeed  \  on  know- 
That  yon  meant  nothing.      Such  a  match  as  this! 
Impossible,  prodigious!"      These  were  words, 

A-  meted  by  his  measure  of  himself. 
Arguing  boundless  forbearance:  after  which, 
And  Leolin's  horror-stricken  answer,  u  1 

ul  a  traitor  to  myself  and  her, 
Never,  O  never,"  for  about  as  long 
As  the  wind-hover  hangs  in  balance,  paused 
Sir  Aylmer  reddening  from  the  storm  within, 
Then  broke  all  hounds  of  courtesy,  and   crying 
"  Boy,  should  I  find  you  by  my  doors  again 
My  men  shall  lash  you  from  them  like  a  dojj; 
Hence!"  with  a  sudden  execration  drove 
The  footstool  from  before  him,  and  arose; 
So,  stammering  "scoundrel  "  out  of  teeth  that  ground 
As  in  a  dreadful  dream,  while  Leolin  still 
R  i  treated  half-aghast,  the  fierce  old  man 
FollowM,  and  under  his  own  lintel  stood 
Storming  with  lifted  hands,  a  hoary  face 
Meet  for  the  reverence  of  the  hearth,  but  now 
Hc-ncath  a  pale  and  unimpassionM  m 
Vext  with  unworthy  madness,  and  deform'd. 

Slowly  and  conscious  of  the  raging  eye 
That  watch' d  him,  till  he  heard  the  ponderous  dooi 
Close,  crashing  with  long  echoes  thro'  the   land, 
Went  Leolin;  then,  his  passions  all  in  flood 
And  masters  of  his  motion,  furiously 
Down  thro'  the  bright  lawns  to  his  brother's  ran. 
And  foam'd  away  his  heart  at  AverilPs  ear: 
Whom  Averill  solac'd  as  he  might,  amazed: 
The  man  was  his.  had  been  his  father's,  friend: 
He  must  have  seen,  himself  had  seen  it  long; 


744  ATLMER'S  FIELD. 


He  must  have  known,  himself  had  known:  besides, 

He  never  yet  had  set  his  daughter  forth 

Here  in  the  woman-markets  of  the  west, 

Where  our  Caucasians  let  themselves  be  sold. 

Some  one,  he  thought,  had  slander'd  Leolin  to  him. 

lc  Brother,  for  I  have  loved  you  more  as  son 

Than  brother,  let  me  tell  you :  I  myself — 

What  is  their  pretty  saying?  jilted,  is  it? 

Jilted  I  was :  I  say  it  for  your  peace. 

Pain'd,  and,  as  bearing  in  myself  the  shame 

The  woman  should  have  borne,  humiliated, 

I  lived  for  years  a  stunted  sunless  life; 

Till  after  our  good  parents  past  away 

Watching  your  growth,  I  seem'd  again  to  grow. 

Leolin,  I  almost  sin  in  envying  you: 

The  very  whitest  lamb  in  all  my  fold 

Loves  you:  I  know  her:  the  worst  thought  she  has 

Is  whiter  even  than  her  pretty  hand : 

She  must  prove  true:  for,  brother,  where  two  fight 

The  strongest  wins,  and  truth  and  love  are  strength, 

And  you  are  happy :  let  her  parents  be." 

But  Leolin  cried  out  the  more  upon  them — 
Insolent,  brainless,  heartless!  heiress,  wealth, 
Their  wealth,  their  heiress!  wealth  enough  was  theirs 
For  twenty  matches.     Were  he  lord  of  this, 
Why  twenty  boys  and  girls  should  many  on  it, 
And  forty  blest  ones  bless  him,  and  himself 
Be  wealthy  still,  ay  wealthier.     He  believed 
This  filthy  marriage-hindering  Mammon  made 
The  harlot  of  the  cities;  nature  crost 
Was  mother  of  the  foul  adulteries 
That  saturate  soul  with  body.     Name,  too!  name, 
Their  ancient  name!  they  might  be  proud;  its  worth 
Was  being  Edith's.     Ah  how  pale  she  had  look'd 
Darling,  to-night!  they  must  have  rated  her 
Beyond  all  tolerance.     These  old  pheasant-lords, 
These  partridge-breeders  of  a  thousand  years, 
Who  had  mildew'd  in  their  thousands,  doing  nothing 
Since  Egbert — why,  the  greater  their  disgrace! 
Fall  back  upon  a  name!  rest,  rot  in  that! 
Not  keep  it  noble,  make  it  nobler?  fools, 
With  such  a  vantage-ground  for  nobleness! 
He  had  known  a  man,  a  quintessence  of  man, 
The  life  of  all — who  madly  loved — and  he, 


ATLMER'S  FIELD. 


/45 


Thwarted  by  one  of  these  old  father-fools, 
Had  rioted  his  life  out,  and  made  an  end. 
He  would  not  do  it!  her  sweet  fact-  and  faith 
Held  him  from  that:  but  he  had  powers,  he  knew  it; 
Back  would  he  to  his  studies,  make  a  name-, 
Name,  fortune  too:  the  world  should  ring  of  him 
To  shame  these  mouldy  Aylmers  in  their  graves: 
Chancellor,  or  what  is  greatest,  would  he  be — 
"O  brother,  I  am  grieved  to  learn  your  grief — 
Give  me  my  fling,  and  let  me  say  my  say." 

At  which,  like  one  that  sees  his  own  excess, 
And  easily  forgives  it  as  his  own, 
He  laugh'd;  and  then  was  mute;  but  presently 
Wept  like  a  storm:  and  honest  Averill  seeing 
How  low  his  brother's  mood  had  fallen,  fetchM 
His  richest  beeswing  from  a  binn  reserv'd 


For  banquets,  praised  the  waning  red,  and  told 
The  vintage — when  this  Aylmer  came  of  age — 


<46  ATLMER'S  FIELD. 


Then  drank  and  past  it:   till  at  length  the  two 
Tho'  Leolin  flamed  and  fell  again,  agreed 
That  much  allowance  must  be  made  for  men. 
After  an  angry  gleam  this  kindlier  glow 
Faded  with  morning,  but  his  purpose  held. 

Yet  once  by  night  again  the  lovers  met, 
A  perilous  meeting  under  the  tall  pines 
That  darkened  all  the  northward  of  her  Hall. 
Him,  to  her  meek  and   modest  bosom  prest 
In  agony,  shepromis'd  that  no  force, 
Persuasion,  no,  nor  death,  could  alter  her: 
He,  passionately  hopefuller,  would  go, 
Labor  for  his  own  Edith,  and  return 
In  such  a  sunlight  of  prosperity 
He  should  not  be  rejected.     "  Write  to  me! 
They  loved  me,  and  because  I  loved  their  child 
They  hate  me;  there  is  war  between  us,  dear, 
Which  breaks  all  bonds  but  ours;  we  must  remain 
Sacred  to  one  another."      So  they  talk'd, 
Poor  children,  for  their  comfort:   the  wind  blew; 
The  rain  of  heaven,  and  their  own  bitter  tears, 
Tears,  and  the  careless  rain  of  heaven,  mixt 
Upon  their  faces,  as  they  kiss'd  each   other 
In  darkness,  and  above  them  roar'd  the  pine. 

So  Leolin  went;  and  as  we  task  ourselves 
To  learn  a  language  known  but  smatteringly 
In  phrases  here  and  there  at  random,  toil'd 
Mastering  the  lawless  science  of  our  law, 
That  codeless  myriad  of  precedent, 
That  wilderness  of  single  instances, 
Thro'  which  a  few,  by  wit  or  fortune  led, 
May  beat  a  pathway  out  to  wealth  and  fame. 
The  jests,  that  flash'd  about  the  pleader's  room, 
Lightning  of  the  hour,  the  pun,  the  scurrilous  tale. 
Old  scandals  buried  now  seven  decades  deep 
In  other  scandals  that  have  lived  and  died, 
And  left  the  living  scandal  that  shall  die  — 
Were  dead  to  him  already ;  bent  as  he  was 
To  make  disproof  of  scorn,  and  strong  in  hopes, 
And  prodigal  of  all  brain-labor  he, 
Charier  of  sleep,  and  wine  and  exercise, 
Except  when  for  a  breathing-while  at  eve, 
Some  niggard  fraction  of  an  hour,  he  ran 


ATLMER'S   FIELD.  747 


Beside  the  river-bank:  and  then  indeed 
Harder  the  times  were,  and  the  hands  of  power 
Were  bloodier,  and  the  according  hearts  of  men 
Seem'd  harder  too;  hut  the  soft  river-breeze, 
Which  fann'd  the  gardens  of  that  rival  rose 

fragrant  in  a  heart  remembering 
Hi-  forrder  talks  with  Edith,  on  him  breathed 
Far  pureliet  in  hia  rustlings  to  and  fro, 
After  his  books,  to  flush  his  blood  with  air, 
Then  t<>  his  hooks  again.      My  lady's  cousin, 
Half-Sickening  of  his  pensioned  afternoon, 
Drove  in  upon  the  student  once  or  twice, 
Kan  a  Malayan  muck  against  the  times, 
Had  golden  hopes  for  France  and  all  mankind, 
Answi-rM  all  queries  touching  those  at  home 
With  a  heav'd  shoulder  and  a  saucy  smile, 
And  fain  had  haled  him  out  into  the   world, 
And  air\l  him  there-:   his  nearer  friend  would  say 
"  Screw  not  the  cord  too  sharply  lest  it  snap." 
Then  left  alone  he  pluck'd  her  dagger  forth 
From  where  his  worldless  heart  had  kept  it  warm. 
Kissing  his  vows  upon  it  like  a  knight. 
And  wrinkled  benchers  often  talk'd  of  him 
Approvingly,  and  prophesied  his  rise: 
For  heart,  I  think,  help'd  head:    her  letters  too, 
Tho'  far  between,  and  coming  fitfully 
Like  broken  music,  written  as  she  found 
Or  made  occasion,  being  strictly  watchM, 
Charm'd  him  thro'  every  labyrinth  till  he  saw 
An  end,  a  hope,  a  light  breaking  upon  him. 

But  they  that  cast  her  spirit  into  flesh, 
Her  worldly-wise  begetters,  plagued  themselves 
To  sell  her,  those  good  parents,  for  her  good. 
Whatever  eldest-born  of  rank  or  wealth 
Might  lie  within  their  compass,  him  they  lured 
Into  their  net  made  pleasant  by  the  baits 
Of  gold  and  beauty,  wooing  him  to  woo, 
So  month  by  month  the  noise  about  their  door-. 
And  distant  blaze  of  those  dull  banquets,  made 
The  nightly  wirer  of  their  innocent  hare 
Falter  before  he  took  it.     All  in  vain. 
Sullen,  defiant,  pitying,  wroth,  returned 
Leolin's  rejected  rivals  from  their  suit 
So  often,  that  the  folly  taking  wings 


748  ATLMER'S  FIELD. 


Slipt  o'er  those  lazy  limits  down  the  wind 
With  rumor,  and  became  in  other  fields 
A  mockery  to  the  yeoman  over  ale, 
And  laughter  to  their  lords:  but  those  at  home, 
As  hunters  round  a  hunted  creature  draw 
The  cordon  close  and  closer  toward  the  death, 
Narrow'd  her  goings  out  and  comings  in; 
Forbad  her  first  the  house  of  Averill, 
Then  closed  her  access  to  the  wealthier  farms, 
Last  from  her  own  home-circle  of  the  poor* 
They  barr'd  her:  yet  she  bore  it:  yet  her  cheek 
Kept  color:  wondrous!  but,  O  mystery! 
What  amulet  drew  her  down  to  that  old  oak, 
So  old  that  twenty  years  before,  a  part 
Falling  had  let  appear  a  brand  of  John — 
Once  grovelike,  each  huge  arm  a  tree,  but  now 
The  broken  base  of  a  black  tower,  a  cave 
Of  touchwood,  with  a  single  flourishing  spray, 
There  the  manorial  lord  too  curiously 
taking  in  that  millennial  touchwood-dust 
\>und  for  himself  a  bitter  treasure-trove; 
Burst  his  own  wyvern  on  the  seal,  and  read 
Writhing  a  letter  from  his  child,  for  which 
Came  at  the  moment  Leolin's  emissary, 
A  crippl'd  lad,  and  coming  turn'd  to  fly, 
But  scared  with  threats  of  jail  and  halter  gave 
To  him  that  flustered  his  poor  parish  wits 
The  letter  which  he  brought,  and  swore  beside 
To  play  their  go-between  as  heretofore 
Nor  let  them  know  themselves  betray'd ;  and  then, 
Soul-stricken  at  their  kindness  to  him,  went 
Hating  his  own  lean  heart  and  miserable. 

Thenceforward  oft  from  out  a  despot  dream 
The  father  panting  woke,  and  oft,  at  dawn 
Arous'd  the  black  republic  on  his  elms, 
Sweeping  the  frothfly  from  the  fescue,  brush'd 
Thro'  the  dim  meadow  toward  his  treasure-trove, 
Seiz'd  it,  took  home,  and  to  my  lady, — who,  made 
A  downward  crescent  of  her  minion  mouth, 
Listless  in  all  despondence, — read;  and  tore, 
As  if  the  living  passion  symbol'd  there 
Were  living  nerves  to  feel  the  rent;  and  burnt, 
Now  chafing  at  his  own  great  self  defied, 
Now  striking  on  huge  stumbling-blocks  of  scorn 


ATLMER'S  FIELD.  74W 


In  babyisms,  and  dear  diminutives 

Scatter'd  all  over  the  vocabulary 

Of  such  a  love  as  like  a  chidden  child, 

After  much  wailing,  hush'd  itself  at  last 

Hopeless  of  answer:  then  tho'  Averill  wrote 

And  bade  him  with  good  heart  sustain  himself — 

All  would  be  well — the  lover  heeded  not, 

But  passionately  restless  came  and  went, 

And  rustling  once  at  night  about  the  place, 

There  by  a  keeper  shot  at,  slightly  hurt, 

Raging  returned :  nor  was  it  well  for  her 

Kept  to  the  garden  now,  and  grove  of  pines, 

WatchM  even  there;  and  one  was  set  to  watch 

The  watcher,  and  Sir  Aylmer  watchM  them  all, 

Yet  bitterer  from  his  readings:  once  indeed, 

WarmM  with  his  wines  or  taking  pride  in  her, 

She  lookM  so  sweet,  he  kissM  her  tenderly 

Not  knowing  what  possessM  him :  that  one  kiss 

Was  Leolin's  one  strong  rival  upon  earth; 

Seconded,  for  my  lady  followM  suit, 

Seem'd  hope's  returning  rose:  and  then  ensued 

A  Martin's  summer  of  his  faded  love, 

Or  ordeal  by  kindness;  after  this 

He  seldom  crost  his  child  without  a  sneer; 

The  mother  flow'd  in  shallower  acrimonies 

Never  one  kindly  smile,  one  kindly  word : 

So  that  the  gentle  creature  shut  from  all 

Her  charitable  use,  and  face  to  face 

With  twenty  months  of  silence,  slowly  lost 

Nor  greatly  cared  to  lose,  her  hold  on  life. 

Last,  some  low  fever  ranging  round  to  spy 

The  weakness  of  a  people  or  a  house, 

Like  flies  that  haunt  a  wound,  or  deer,  or  men, 

Or  almost  all  that  is,  hurting  the  hurt — 

Save  Christ  as  we  believe  him — found  the  girl 

And  flung  her  down  upon  a  couch  of  fire, 

Where  careless  of  the  household  faces  near, 

And  crying  upon  the  name  of  Leolin, 

She,  and  with  her  the  race  of  Aylmer,  past. 

Star  to  star  vibrates  light:  may  soul  to  soul 
Strike  thro1  a  finer  element  of  her  own? 
So, — from  afar, — touch  us  at  once?  or  why 
That  night,  that  moment,  when  she  named  his  name. 
Did  the  keen  shriek,  "  Yes  love,  yes  Edith,  yes." 


750  ATLMER'S  FIELD. 


Shrill,  till  the  comrade  of  his  chambers  woke, 
And  came  upon  him  half-arisen  from  sleep, 
With  a  weird  bright  eye,  sweating  and  trembling, 
His  hair  as  it  were  crackling  into  flames. 
His  body  half  flung  forward  in  pursuit, 
And  his  long  arms  stretch'd  as  to  grasp  a  flyer: 
Nor  knew  he  wherefore  he  had  made  the  cry: 
And  being  much  befool'd  and  idioted 
By  the  rough  amity  of  the  other,  sank 
As  into  sleep  again.      The  second  day, 
My  lady's  Indian  kinsman  rushing  in, 
A  breaker  of  the  bitter  news  from  home, 
Found  a  dead  man,  a  letter  edged  with  death 
Beside  him,  and  the  dagger  which  himself 
Gave  Edith,  redden'd  with  no  bandit's  blood: 
"  From  Edith  "  was  engraven  on  the  blade. 

Then  Averill  went  and  gazed  upon  his  death. 
And  when  he  came  again,  his  flock  believ'd — 
Beholding  how  the  years  which  are  not  Time's 
Had  blasted  him — that  many  thousand  days 
Were  dipt  by  horror  from  his  term  of  life. 
Yet  the  sad  mother,  for  the  second  death, 
Scarce  touch'd  her  thro'  that  nearness  of  the  first, 
And  being  used  to  find  her  pastor  texts, 
Sent  to  the  harrow'd  brother,  praying  him 
To  speak  before  the  people  of  her  child, 
And  fixt  the  Sabbath.     Darkly  that  day  rose: 
Autumn's  mock  sunshine  of  the  faded  woods 
Was  all  the  life  of  it;  for  hard  on  these, 
A  breathless  burthen  of  low-folded  heavens 
Stifled  and  chill'd  at  once;  but  every  roof 
Sent  out  a  listener:   many  too  had  known 
Edith  among  the  hamlets  round,  and  since 
The  parents'  harshness  and  the  hapless  loves 
And  double  death  were  widely  murmur'd,  left 
Their  own  gray  tower,  or  plain-faced  tabernacle, 
To  hear  him;  all  in  mourning  these,  and  those 
With  blots  of  it  about  them,  ribbon,  glove 
Or  kerchief;  while  the  church, — one  night,  except 
For  greenish  glimmerings  thro'  the  lancets, — made 
Still  paler  the  pale  head  of  him,  who  tower'd 
Above  them,  with  his  hopes  in  either  grave. 


A  TLMER'S  FIELD. 


751 


Long  o'er  his  bent  brows  linger'd  Averill, 
His  face  magnetic  to  the  hand  from  which 
Livid  he  pluck'd  it  forth,  and  laborM  thro1 
His  Brief  prayer-prelude,  gave  the-  verse,  "Behold, 
Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate !  " 
Hut  lapsM  into  so  Long  a  pause  again 
As  half  amaz'd,  half  frighted  all  his  flock: 
Then  from  his  height  and   loneliness  of  grief 
Bore  down  in  flood,  and  dash'd  his  angry  heart 
Against  the  desolations  of  the  world. 

Never  since  our  bad  earth  became  one  sea, 
Which  rolling  o'er  the  palaces  of  the  proud, 
And  all  but  those  who  knew  the  living  God — 


Eight  that  were  left  to  make  a  purer  world — 

When  since  had  flood,  fire,  earthquake,  thunder,  wrought 

Such  waste  and  havoc  as  the  idolatries, 

Which  from  the  low  light  of  mortality 

Shot  up  their  shadows  to  the  Heaven  of  Heavens, 

And  worshipt  their  own  darkness  as  the  Highest? 

"  Gash  thyself,  priest,  and  honor  thy  brute  Baal, 

And  to  thy  worst  self  sacrifice  thyself, 

For  with  thy  worst  self  hast  thou  clothed  thy  God." 

Then  came  a  Lord  in  no  wise  like  to  Baal. 

The  babe  shall  lead  the  lion.     Surely  now 

The  wilderness  shall  blossom  as  the  rose. 

Crown  thyself,  worm,  and  worship  thine  own  lusts! — 

No  coarse  and  blockish  God  of  acreage 


752  ATLMER'S  FIELD. 


Stands  at  thy  gate  for  thee  to  grovel  to — 

Thy  God  is  far  diffused  in  noble  groves 

And  princely  halls,  and  farms,  and  flowing  lawns, 

And  heaps  of  living  gold  that  daily  grow, 

And  title-scrolls  and  gorgeous  heraldries. 

In  such  a  shape  dost  thou  behold  thy  God. 

Thou  wilt  not  gash  thy  flesh  for  him;  for  thine 

Fares  richly,  in  fine  linen,  not  a  hair 

Ruffled  upon  the  scarfskin,  even  while 

The  deathless  ruler  of  thy  dying  house 

Is  wounded  to  the  death  that  cannot  die; 

And  tho'  thou  numberest  with  the  followers 

Of  One  who  cried  "  Leave  all  and  follow  me. " 

Thee  therefore  with  His  light  about  thy  feet, 

Thee  with  His  message  ringing  in  thine  ears, 

Thee  shall  thy  brother  man,  the  Lord  from   Heaven, 

Born  of  a  village  girl,  carpenter's  son, 

Wonderful,  Prince  of  peace,  the  Mighty  God, 

Count  the  more  base  idolater  of  the  two; 

Crueller:  as  not  passing  thro'  the  fire 

Bodies,  but  souls — thy  children's — thro'  the  smoke, 

The  blight  of  low  desires — darkening  thine  own 

To  thine  own  likeness;  or  if  one  of  these, 

Thy  better  born  unhappily  from  thee, 

Should,  as  by  miracle,  grow  straight  and  fair — 

Friends,  I  was  bid  to  speak  of  such  a  one 

By  those  who  most  have  cause  to  sorrow  for  her — 

Fairer  than  Rachel  by  the  palmy  well, 

Fairer  than  Ruth  among  the  fields  of  corn, 

Fair  as  the  Angel  that  said  "  hail "  she  seem'd, 

Who  entering  fill'd  the  house  with  sudden  light. 

For  so  mine  own  was  brighten'd :  where  indeed 

The  roof  so  lowly  but  that  beam  of  Heaven 

Dawn'd  sometimes  thro'  the  doorway?  whose  the  babe 

Too  ragged  to  be  fondled  on  her  lap, 

Warm'd  at  her  bosom?     The  poor  child  of  shame, 

The  common  care,  whom  no  one  cared  for,  leapt 

To  greet  her,  wasting  his  forgotten  heart, 

As  with  the  mother  he  had  never  known, 

In  gambols;  for  her  fresh  and  innocent  eyes 

Had  such  a  star  of  morning  in  their  blue, 

That  all  neglected  places  of  the  field 

Broke  into  nature's  music  when  they  saw  her. 

Low  was  her  voice,  but  won  mysterious  way 

Thro'  the  seal'd  ear,  to  which  a  louder  one 


ATLMER'S  FIELD.  753 


Was  all  but  silence — free  of  alms  her  hand — 

The  hand  that  robed  your  cottage-wall  with  flowers 

Has  often  toil'd  to  clothe  your  little  ones; 

How  often  placed  upon  the  sick  man's  brow 

Cool'd  it,  or  laid  his  feverous  pillow  smooth! 

Had  you  one  sorrow  and  she  shared  it  not? 

One  burthen  and  she  would  not  lighten  it  ? 

One  spiritual  doubt  she  did  not  soothe? 

Or  when  some  heat  of  difference  sparkled  out, 

How  sweetly  would  she  glide  between  your  wraths, 

And  steal  you  from  each  other!  for  she  walk'd 

Wearing  the  light  yoke  of  that  Lord  of  love, 

Who  stillMthe  rolling  waves  of  Galili 

And  one — of  him  1  was  not  bid  to  speak — 

Was  always  with  her,  whom  you  also  knew* 

Him  too  \<»u  loved, for  he  was  worthy  love. 

And  these  had  been  together  from  the  first; 

They  might  have  been  together  till  the  last. 

Friends,  this  frail  hark  of  ours,  when  sorely  tried, 

M;iv  wreck  itself  without  the  pilots  guilt, 

Without  the  captain's  knowledge:  hope  with  m< . 

Whose  shame  is  that,  it'  he  went  hence  with  shame? 

Nor  mine  the  fault,  if  losing  both  of  these 

I  cry  to  vacant  chairs  and  widow M  walls, 

«*  My  house  is  left  unto  me  desolate." 

While  thus  he  spoke,  his  hearers  wept;  but  some, 
Sons  of  the  glebe,  with  other  frowns  than  those 
That  knit  themselves  for  summer  shadows,  scowl'd 
At  their  great  lord.     He,  when  it  seem'd  he  saw 
No  pale  sheet-lightnings  from  afar,  but  fork'd 
Of  the  near  storm,  and  aiming  at  his  head, 
Sat  anger-charm'd  from  sorrow,  soldier-like, 
Erect ;  but  when  the  preacher's  cadence  flow'd 
Softening  through  all  the  gentle  attributes 
Of  his  lost  child,  the  wife,  who  watch'd  his  face, 
Paled  at  a  sudden  twitch  of  his  iron  mouth; 
And,  «  O  pray  God  that  he  hold  up,"  she  thought, 
«*  Or  surely  I  shall  shame  myself  and  him." 

«*  Nor  yours  the  blame — for  who  beside  your  hearths 
Can  take  her  place — if  echoing  me  you  cry 
*  Our  house  is  left  unto  us  desolate?  ' 
But  thou,  O  thou  that  killest,  hadst  thou  known, 

48 


754  ATLMEWS  FIELD. 


O  thou  that  stonest,  hadst  thou  understood 

The  things  belonging  to  thy  peace  and  ours! 

Is  there  no  prophet  but  the  voice  that  calls 

Doom  upon  kings,  or  in  the  waste  '  Repent?  ' 

Is  not  our  own  child  on  the  narrow  way, 

Who  down  to  those  that  saunter  in  the  broad 

Cries,  '  Come  up  hither,'  as  a  prophet  to  us? 

Is  there  no  stoning  save  with  flint  and  rock? 

Yes,  as  the  dead  we  weep  for  testify — 

No  desolation  but  by  sword  and  fire? 

Yes,  as  your  moanings  witness,  and  myself 

Am  lonelier,  darker,  earthlier  for  my  loss. 

Give  me  your  prayers,  for  he  is  past  your  prayers, 

Not  past  the  living  fount  of  pity  in  Heaven. 

But  I  that  thought  myself  long-suffering,  meek, 

Exceeding  c  poor  in  spirit ' — how  the  words 

Have  twisted  back  upon  themselves  and  mean 

Vileness,  we  are  grown  so  proud — I  wish'd  my  voice 

A  rushing  tempest  of  the  wrath  of  God 

To  blow  these  sacrifices  thro'  the  world — 

Sent  like  the  twelve-divided  concubine 

To  inflame  the  tribes;  but  there — out  yonder — earth 

Lightens  from  her  own  central  Hell — O  there 

The  red  fruit  of  an  old  idolatry — 

The  heads  of  chiefs  and  princes  fall  so  fast, 

They  cling  together  in  the  ghastly  sack — 

The  land  all  shambles — naked  marriages 

Flash  from  the  bridge,  and  ever-murder'd   France, 

By  shores  that  darken  with  the  gathering  wolf, 

Runs  in  a  river  of  blood  to  the  sick  sea. 

Is  this  a  time  to  madden  madness  then  ? 

Was  this  a  time  for  these  to  flaunt  their  pride? 

May  Pharaoh's  darkness,  folds  as  dense  as  those 

Which  hid  the  Holiest  from  the  people's  eyes 

Ere  the  great  death,  shroud  this  great  sin  from  all: 

Doubtless  our  narrow  world  must  canvass  it; 

Or  rather  pray  for  those  and  pity  them 

Who  thro'  their  own  desire  accomplish'd  bring 

Their  own  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave — 

Who  broke  the  bond  which  they  desired  to  break — 

Which  else  had  link'd  their  race  with  times  to  come- 

Who  wove  coarse  webs  to  snare  her  purity,  . 

Grossly  contriving  their  dear  daughter's  good — 

Poor  souls,  and  knew  not  what  they  did,  bui  *£^ 

Itrnar^r*-  devising  their  own  daugnter's  death! 

May  not  that  earthly  chastisement  suffice? 


ATLMBR'S  FIELD.  ^55 


Have  not  our  love  and  reverence  left  them  bare? 

Will  not  another  take  their  heritage? 

Will  there  be  children's  laughter  in  their  hall 

Forever  and  forever,  or  one  stone 

Left  on  another,  or  is  it  a  li^ht  thing 

That  I  their  guest,  their  host)  their  ancient  friend, 

I  made  by  these  the-  last  «>f  all  my  rare 

Must  cry  to  these  the  last  of  theirs;  as  cried 

Christ  ere  1  lis  agony  to  those  that  swore 

Not  by  the  temple  but  the  gold,  and  made 

Their  own  traditions  God,  and  slew  the  Lord, 

And  left  their  memories  a  world's  curse — i  Behold, 

Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate.' " 

Ended  he  had  not,  but  she  brook'd  no  more; 
Long  since  her  heart  had  beat  remorselessly, 
Her  crampt-up  sorrow  pain'd  her,  and  a  sense 
Of  meanness  in  her  unresisting  life. 
Then  their  eyes  vext  her;  for  on  entering 
He  had  cast  the  curtains  of  their  seat  aside — 
Black  velvet  of  the  costliest — she  herself 
Had  seen  to  that:  fain  had  she  closed  them  now, 
Yet  dared  not  stir  to  do  it,  only  nearM 
Her  husband  inch  by  inch,  hut  when  she  laid 
Wifelike,  her  hand  in  one  of  his,  he  veilM 
His  face  with  the  other,  and  at  once  as  falls 
A  creeper  when  the  prop  is  broken,  fell 
The  woman  shrieking  at  his  feet,  and  swoon'd. 
Then  her  own  people  bore  along  the  nave 
Her  pendant  hands,  and  narrow  meagre  face 
Seam'd  with  the  shallow  cares  of  fifty  years: 
And  her  the  Lord  of  all  the  landscape  round 
Ev'n  to  its  last  horizon,  and  of  all 
Who  peer'd  at  him  so  keenly,  follow'd  out 
Tall  and  erect,  but  in  the  middle  aisle 
Reel'd,  as  a  footsore  ox  in  crowded  ways 
Stumbling  across  the  market  to  his  death, 
Unpitied;  for  he  groped  as  blind,  and  seem'd 
Always  about  to  fall,  grasping  the  pews 
And  oaken  finials  till  he  touch'd  the  door; 
Yet  to  the  lychgate,  where  his  chariot  stood, 
Strode  from  the  porch,  tall  and  erect  again. 

But  nevermore  did  either  pass  the  gate 
Save  under  pail  with  bearers.     In  one  month, 


756  ATLMER'S  FIELD. 


Thro'  weary  and  yet  ever  wearier  hours, 

The  childless  mother  went  to  seek  her  child; 

And  when  he  felt  the  silence  of  his  house 

About  him,  and  the  change  and  not  the  change, 

And  those  fixt  eyes  of  painted  ancestors 

Staring  forever  from  their  gilded  walls 

On  him  their  last  descendant,  his  own  head 

Began  to  droop,  to  fall;  the  man  became 

Imbecile;  his  one  word  was  "  desolate;" 

Dead  for  two  years  before  his  death  was  he; 

But  when  the  second  Christmas  came,  escap'd 

His  keepers,  and  the  silence  which  he  felt, 

To  find  a  deeper  in  the  narrow  gloom 

By  wife  and  child;  nor  wanted  at  his  end 

The  dark  retinue  reverencing  death 

At  golden  thresholds;  nor  from  tender  hearts, 

And  those  who  sorrow'd  o'er  a  vanish'd  race, 

Pity,  the  violet  on  the  tyrant's  grave. 

Then  the  great  Hall  was  wholly  broken  down, 

And  the  broad  woodland  parcell'd  into  farms; 

And  where  the  two  contriv'd  their  daughter's  good, 

Lies  the  hawk's  cast,  the  mole  has  made  his  run, 

The  hedgehog  underneath  the  plantain  bores, 

The  rabbit  fondles  his  own  harmless  face, 

The  slow-worm  creeps,  and  the  thin  weasel  there 

Follows  the  mouse,  and  all  is  open  field. 


SBA    IMEAMS. 


757 


SEA  BXEAMS. 


CITY  clerk,  but  gently  born  and  bred; 
His  wife,  an  unknown  artist's  orphan  child — 
One  babe  was  theirs,  a  Margaret,  three  years  old; 
They,  thinking  that  her  clear  germander  eye 
Droopt  in  the  giant-factoried  city-gloom, 
Came,  with  a  month's  leave  given  them,  to  the 

sea: 
For  which  his  gains  were  dock'd,  however  small; 
Small  were  his  gains,  and  hard  his  work;  besides, 
Their  slender  household  fortunes  (for  the  man 
Had  risk'd  his  little)  like  the  little  thrift, 
Trembled  in  perilous  places  o'er  a  deep; 
And  oft,  when  sitting  all  alone,  his  face 
Would  darken,  as  he  curs' d  his  credulousness, 
And  that  one  unctuous  mouth  which  lured  him,  rogue, 
To  buy  strange  shares  in  some  Peruvian  mine. 
Now  seaward-bound  for  health  they  gain'd  a  coast, 
All  sand  and  cliff  and  deep-inrunning  cave, 
At  close  of  day;  slept,  woke,  and  went  the  next, 
The  Sabbath,  pious  variers  from  the  church, 
To  chapel;  where  a  heated  pulpiteer, 
Not  preaching  simple  Christ  to  simple  men, 
Announc'd  the  coming  doom,  and  fulminated 
Against  the  scarlet  woman  and  her  creed: 
For  sideways  up  he  swung  his  arms,  and  shriek'd, 
"  Thus,  thus,  with  violence,"  ev'n  as  if  he  held 
The  Apocalyptic  millstone,  and  himself 
Were  that  great  Angel ;     "  Thus  with  violence 
Shall  Babylon  be  cast  into  the  sea; 
Then  comes  the  close."     The  gentle-hearted  wife 
Sat  shuddering  at  the  ruin  of  a  world; 
He  at  his  own;  but  when  the  wordy  storm 
Had  ended,  forth  they  came  and  paced  the  shore, 
Ran  in  and  out  the  long  sea-framing  caves, 
Drank  the  large  air,  and  saw,  but  scarce  believ'd 
(The  sootflakc  of  so  many  a  summer  still 
Clung  to  their  fancies)  that  they  saw,  the  sea. 


75* 


SEA  DREAMS. 


So  now  on  sand  they  walk'd,  and  now  on  cliff, 
Lingering  about  the  thymy  promontories, 
.Till  all  the  sails  were  darken'd  in  the  west, 
And  rosed  in  the  east:  then  homeward  and  to  bed: 
Where  she,  who  kept  a  tender  Christian  hope 
Haunting  a  holy  text,  and  still  to  that 
Returning,  as  the  bird  returns,  at  night, 
u  Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon  your  wrath." 
Said,  "  Love,  forgive  him:  "  but  he  did  net  speak; 
And  silencM  by  that  silence  lay  the  wife, 
Remembering  her  dear  Lord  who  died  for  all, 
And  musing  on  the  little  lives  of  men, 
And  how  they  mar  this  little  by  their  feuds. 

But  while  the  two  were  sleeping,  a  full  tide 
Rose  with  ground-swell,  which,  on  the  foremost  rocks 
Touching,  upjetted  in  spirit  of  wild  sea-smoke, 
And  scaled  in  sheets  of  wasteful  foam,  and   fell 
In  vast  sea-cataracts — ever  and  anon 


Dead  claps  of  thunder  from  within  the  cliffs 

Heard  thro'  the  living  roar.     At  this  the  babe, 

Their  Margaret  cradled  near  them,  wail'd  and  woke 

The  mother,  and  the  father  suddenly  cried, 

"  A  wreck,  a  wreck!"  then  turivd,  and  groaning  said, 


"  Forgive!  How  many  will  say,  4  Forgive,'  and  find 
A  sort  of  absolution  in  the  sound 
To  hate  a  little  longer!     No;  the  sin 
That  neither  God  nor  man  can  well  forgive, 
Hypocrisy,  I  saw  it  in  him  at  once. 
Is  it  so  true  that  second  thoughts  are  best? 


SEA  DREAMS.  109 


Not  first,  and  third,  which  are  a  riper  first? 
Too  ripe,  too  late !  they  come  too  late  for  use. 
Ah  love,  there  surely  lives  in  man  ami  1 
Something  divine  to  warn  them  of  their  foes; 
And  such  a  sense,  when  I  first  fronted  him, 
Said  'Trust  htm  not;'  but  after,  when  I  came 
To  know  him  more,  I  lost  it,  knew  him  lewj 
Fought  with  what  >eem\l  my  own  uncharity: 

at  his  table;  drank  his  costly  wines; 
Made  more  and  more  allowance  for  his  talk; 
Went  further,  fool !  and  trusted  him  with  all, 
All  my  poor  scrapings  from  a  dozen  y<. 
Of  dust  and  deskwork;  there-  is  DO  such  mine, 
None;  but  a  gulf  of  ruin,  swallowing  gold, 
Not  making.      RuinM!   ruin'dl  the  sea  roars 
Ruin:  a  fearful  night!" 

"Not  fearful;  fair," 
Said  the  good  wife,  "  if  every  star  in  heaven 
Can  make  it  fair:  you  do  but  hear  the  tide. 
Had  you  ill  dream 

"O  yes,"  he  said,"  I  dream'd 
Of  such  a  tide  swelling  toward  the  land, 
And  I  from  out  the  boundless  outer  deep 
Swept  with  it  to  the  shore,  and  enterM  one 
Of  those  dark  caves  that  run  beneath  the  cliffs. 
I  thought  the  motion  of  the  boundless  deep 
Bore  through  the  cave,  and  I  wit  heaved  upon  it 
In  darkness:  then  I  saw  one  lovely  star 
Larger  and  larger.     •  What  a  work!,'  I  thought, 
4  To  live  in!'  but  in  moving  on  I  found 
Only  the  landward  exit  of  the  c 
Bright  with  the  sun  upon  the  stream  beyond: 
And  near  the  light  a  giant  woman 
All  over  earthy,  like  a  piece  of  earth, 
A  pickaxe  in  her  hand:  then  out  I  slipt 
Into  a  land  all  sun  and  blossom,  tu 
As  high  as  heaven,  and  every  bird  that  sings: 
And  here  the  night-light  flickering  in  my  eyes 
Awoke  me." 

"  That  was  then  your  dream,"  she  said, 
«  Not  sad,  but  sweet." 


760  SEA  DXEAMS. 


"  So  sweet,  I  lay,"  said  he, 
"  And  mused  upon  it,  drifting  up  the  stream 

In  fancy,  till  I  slept  again,  and  pierc'd  | 

The  broken  vision;  for  I  dream'd  that  still 
The  motion  of  the  great  deep  bore  me  on, 
And  that  the  woman  walk'd  upon  the  brink : 
I  wonder'd  at  her  strength,  and  ask'd  her  of  it: 
4  It  came,'  she  said,  *  by  working  in  the  mines: ' 

0  then  to  ask  her  of  my  shares,  I  thought ; 
And  ask'd;  but  not  a  word;  she  shook  her  head. 
And  then  the  motion  of  the  current  ceased, 
And  there  was  rolling  thunder;  and  we  reach'd 
A  mountain,  like  a  wall  of  burrs  and  thorns; 
But  she  with  her  strong  feet  up  the  steep  hill 
Trod  out  a  path:  I  follow'd;  and  at  top 

She  pointed  seaward:  there  a  fleet  of  glass, 

That  seem'd  a  fleet  of  jewels  under  me, 

Sailing  along  before  a  gloomy  cloud 

That  not  one  moment  ceased  to  thunder,  past 

In  sunshine;  right  across  its  track  there  lay, 

Down  in  the  water,  a  long  reef  of  gold, 

Or  what  seem'd  gold :  and  I  was  glad  at  first 

To  think  that  in  our  often-ransack'd  world 

Still  so  much  gold  was  left;  and  then  I  fear'd 

Lest  the  gay  navy  there  should  splinter  on  it, 

And  fearing  waved  my  arm  to  warn  them  off; 

An  idle  signal,  for  the  brittle  fleet 

(I  thought  I  could  have  died  to  save  it)  near'd, 

Touch'd,  clink'd,  and  clash'd,  and  vanish'd,  and  I  woke, 

1  heard  the  clash  so  clearly.     Now  I  see 

My  dream  was  Life;  the  woman  honest  Work; 
And  my  poor  venture  but  a  fleet  of  glass, 
Wreck'd  on  a  reef  of  visionary  gold." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  kindly  wife,  to  comfort  him, 
"  You  raised  your  arm,  you  tumbled  down  and  broke 
The  glass  with  little  Margaret's  medicine  in  it; 
And,  breaking  that,  you  made  and  broke  your  dream: 
A  trifle  makes  a  dream,  a  trifle  breaks." 

"No  trifle,"  groan'd  the  husband;  "yesterday 

I  met  him  suddenly  in  the  street,  and  ask'd 

That  which  I  ask'd  the  woman  in  my  dream. 

Like  her,  he  shook  his  head.     «  Show  me  the  books! ' 


a  And  near  the  light  a  giant  woman  sat, 
All  over  earthy,  like  a  pieceof  earth, 
A  pickaxe  in  her  hand." 

See  page  7jg. 


SEA  DREAMS.  761 


He  dodg'd  me  with  a  long  and  loose  account. 

*  The  books,  the  books! '   but  he,  he  could  not  wait, 
Bound  on  a  matter  of  life  and  death : 

When  the  great  Books  (see  Daniel  levcn   and  ten) 

Were  open'd,  I  should  find  he  meant  me  well: 

And  then  began  to  bloat  himself,  and  ooze 

All  over  with  the  fat  affectionate  smile 

That  makes  the  widow  lean.     4  My  dearest  friend, 

Have  faith,  have  faith!     We  live  by  faith,'  said  he; 

*  And  all  things  work  together  for  the  good 
Of  those  ' — it  makes  me  sick  to  quote  him — last 
Gript  my  hand  hard,  and  with  God-blest-you  went. 
I  stood  like  one  that  had  received  a  blow  : 

I  found  a  hard  friend  in  his  loose  accounts 
A  loose  one  in  the  hard  grip  of  his  hand, 
A  curse  in  his  God-bless-you :  then  my  eyes 
Pursued  him  down  the  street,  and  far  away 
Among  the  honest  shoulders  of  the  crowd, 
Read  rascal  in  the  motions  of  his  back,  * 

And  scoundrel  in  the  supple-sliding  knee." 

"  Was  he  so  bound,  poor  soul? "  said  the  good  wife; 
"  So  are  we  all :  but  do  not  call  him,  love, 
Before  you  prove  him,  rogue,  and  proved,  forgive. 
His  gain  is  loss;  for  he  that  wrongs  his  friend 
Wrongs  himself  more,  and  ever  bears  about 
A  silent  court  of  justice  in  his  breast, 
Himself  the  judge  and  jury,  and  himself 
The  prisoner  at  the  bar,  ever  condemned: 
And  that  drags  down  his  life:  then  comes  what  comes 
Hereafter:  and  he  meant,  he  said  he  meant, 
Perhaps  he  meant,  or  partly  meant,  you  well." 

"  *  With  all  his  conscience,  and  one  eye  askew ' — 
Love,  let  me  quote  these  lines,  that  you  may  learn 
A  man  is  likewise  counsel  for  himself, 
Too  often,  in  that  silent  court  of  yours — 
'  With  all  his  conscience  and  one  eye  askew, 
So  false,  he  partly  took  himself  for  true; 
Whose  pious  talk,  when  most  his  heart  was  dry, 
Made  wet  the  crafty  crowsfoot  round  his  eye; 
Who,  never  naming  God  except  for  gain, 
So  never  took  that  useful  name  in  vain; 
Made  Him  his  catspaw  and  the  Cross  his  tool, 


762  SEA  DREAMS. 


And  Christ  the  bait  to  trap  his  dupe  and  fool; 
Nor  deeds  of  gift,  but  gifts  of  grace  he  forged, 
And  snakelike  slimed  his  victim  ere  he  gorged ; 
And  oft  at  Bible  meetings,  o'er  the  rest 
Arising,  did  his  holy  oily  best, 
Dropping  the  too  rough  H  in  Hell  and  Heaven, 
To  spread  the  word  by  which  himself  had  thriven.' 
How  like  you  this  old  satire?" 


"  Nay,"  she  said, 
"I  loathe  it:  he  had  never  kindly  heart, 
Nor  ever  cared  to  better  his  own  kind, 
Who  first  wrote  satire  with  no  pity  in  it. 
But  will  you  hear  my  dream,  for  I  had  one 
That  altogether  went  to  music?     Still 
It  awed  me." 


,  Then  she  told  it,  having  dream'd 

Of  that  same  coast. 


" — But  round  the  North,  a  light, 
A  belt,  it  seem'd,  of  luminous  vapor,  lay, 
And  ever  in  it  a  low  musical  note 
Swell'd  up  and  died;  and,  as  it  swell'd,  a  ridge 
Of  breaker  issued  from  the  belt,  and  still 
Grew  with  the  growing  note,  and  when  the  note 
Had  reach' d  a  thunderous  fulness,  on  those  cliffs 
Broke,  mixt  with  awful  light  (the  same  as  that 
Living  within  the  belt)  whereby  she  saw 
That  all  those  lines  of  cliffs  were  cliffs  no  more, 
But  huge  cathedral  fronts  of  every  age, 
Grave,  florid,  stern,  as  far  as  eye  could  see, 
One  after  one :  and  then  the  great  ridge  drew, 
Lessening  to  the  lessening  music,  back, 
And  past  into  the  belt  and  swell'd  again 
Slowly  to  music:  ever  when  it  broke 
The  statues,  king  or  saint,  or  founder,  fell; 
Then  from  the  gaps  and  chasms  of  ruin  left 
Came  men  and  women  in  dark  clusters  round, 
Some  crying  l  Set  them  up!  they  shall  not  fall!' 
And  others,  c  Let  them  lie,  for  they  have  fall'n.' 
And  still  they  strove  and  wrangled :  and  she  grieved 
In  her  strange  dream,  she  knew  not  why,  to  find 
Their  wildest  wailings  never  out  of  tune 


SEA  DREAMS.  763 

With  that  sweet  note;  and  ever  as  their  shrieks 
Ran  highest  up  the  gamut,  that  great  wave 
Returning,  while  none  mark'd  it,  on  the  crowd 
Broke,  mixt  with  awful  light,  and  show'd  their  eyes 
Glaring,  and  passionate  looks,  and  swept  away 
The  men  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  men  of  stone, 
j.'o  the  waste  deeps  together. 

"  Then  I  fixt 
My  wistful  eyes  on  two  fair  images, 
Both  crown'd  with  stars  and  high  among  the  stars, — 
The  Virgin  Mother  standing  with  her  child 
High  up  on  one  of  those  dark  msnstel  -fronts — 
Till  she  began  to  totter,  and  the  child 
Clung  to  the  mother,  and  sen!  out  l  cry 
Which  mixt  with  little  Margaret's,  and  I  woke, 
And  my  dream  awed  me: — well — but  what  are  dreams? 
Yours  came  from  the  breaking  of  a  glass, 
And  mine  but  from  the  crying  of  a  child." 

"Child?     No!"  said  he,  "  but  this  tide's  roar,  and  his., 
Our  Boanerges,  with  his  threats  of  doom, 
And  loud-lung'd  Antibabylonianisms 
(  Altho*  I  grant  but  little  music  there) 
Went  both  to  make  your  dream :  but  if  there  were 
A  music  harmonizing  our  wild  cries, 
Sphere-music  such  as  that  you  dream'd  about, 
Why,  that  would  make  our  passions  far  too  like 
The  discords  dear  to  the  musician.     No — 
One  shriek  of  hate  would  jar  all  the  hymns  of  heaven: 
True  Devils  with  no  ear,  they  howl  in  tune 
With  nothing  but  the  Devil ! " 

"  *  True'  indeed! 
One  of  our  town,  but  later  by  an  hour 
Here  than  ourselves,  spoke  with  me  on  the  shore; 
While  you  were  running  down  the  sands,  and  made 
The  dimpled  flounce  of  the  sea-furbelow  flap, 
Good  man,  to  please  the  child.     She  brought  strange  news. 
Why  were  you  silent  when  I  spoke  to-ni«ht? 
I  had  set  my  heart  on  your  forgiving  him 
Before  you  knew.     We  must  forgive  the  dead." 

"  Dead !  who  is  dead  ?  " 


764  SEA  DREAMS. 


"  The  man  your  eye  pursued. 
A  little  after  you  had  parted  with  him, 
He  suddenly  dropt  dead  of  heart-disease." 

"  Dead  ?  he  ?  of  heart-disease  ?  what  heart  had  he 
To  die  of?  dead!" 

"  Ah,  dearest,  if  there  be 
A  devil  in  man,  there  is  an  angel  too, 
And  if  he  did  that  wrong  you  charge  him  with, 
His  angel  broke  his  heart.     But  your  rough  voice 
(You  spoke  so  loud)  has  roused  the  child  again. 
Sleep,  little  birdie,  sleep!  will  she  not  sleep 
Without  her  'little  birdie?'  well  then,  sleep, 
And  I  will  sing  you  «  birdie.'  " 

Saying  this, 
The  woman  half  turn'd  round  from  him  she  loved, 
Left  him  one  hand,  and  reaching  thro'  the  night 
Her  other,  found  (for  it  was  close  beside) 
And  half  embrac'd  the  basket  cradle-head 
With  one  soft  arm,  which,  like  the  pliant  bough 
That  moving  moves  the  nest  and  nestling,  sway'd 
The  cradle,  while  she  sang  this  baby  song. 


What  does  little  birdie  say 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day? 
Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie, 
Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 
Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger, 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer, 
Then  she  flies  away. 


What  does  little  baby  say, 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 
Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 
Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger, 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer, 
Baby  too  shall  fly  away. 


*  She  sleeps:  let  us  too,  let  all  evil,  sleep. 
He  also  sleeps — another  sleep  than  ours. 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 


765 


He  can  do  no  more  wrong:  forgive  him,  dear, 
And  I  shall  sleep  the  sounder." 

Then  the  man, 
"  His  deeds  yet  live,  the  worst  is  yet  to  come. 
Yet  let  your  sleep  for  this  one  night  be  sound : 
I  do  forgive  him!  " 

"  Thanks,  my  love,"  she  said, 
*  Your  own  will  be  the  sweeter,"  and  they  slept. 


->5=:*3i£*=3«-- 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 


OLD  STYLE. 


HEER  'asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  liggin'  'ere  aloan? 
Noorse?    thoort  nowt  o'   a    noorse;   whoy,  Doctor's 

abean  on'  agoan : 
Says  that  I  moant  'a  naw  moor  yaale:  but  1  beant  a 

fool: 
Git  ma  my  yaale,  for  I  beant  a-gooin'  to  break  my  rule. 

Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  for  a  says  what's  naw  ways  true: 
Naw  soort  o'  koind  o'  use  to  saay  the  things  that  a  do. 

Vd  my  pint  o'  yaale  ivry  noight  sin'  I  bean 
An'  I  \  c  'ed  my  quart  ivry  mai -ket-noight  for  foorty  year 

Parson  's  a  bean  loikewoise,  an'  a  sittin'  'ere  o'  my  bed. 
"The  amoighty  'a  a  taakin'  o'  you  to  'issen,  my  friend,"  'a  said, 
An'  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an  \s  toithe  were  due,  an'  I  gied  it  in  hond; 
I  done  my  duty  by  un,  as  I  'a  done  by  the  lond. 


Larn'd  a  ma'  bca.     I  reckons  I  'annot  sa  mooch  to  lam. 
But  a  cost  oop,  thot  a  did,  'boot  Bessy  Marris's  barn 


765  NORTHERN  FARMER. 


Thof  a  knaws  I  hallus  voated  wi'  Squoire  an'  choorch  an'  staate, 
An'  i'  the  woost  o'  times  I  wur  niver  agin  the  raate. 

An'  I  hallus  corned  to  's  choorch  afoor  my  Sally  wur  dead, 
An'  'eerd  un  a  bummin'  awaay  loike  a  buzzard-clock  *  ower  my  yead. 
An'  I  niver  knaw'd  whot  a  mean'd  but  I  thowt  a  'ad  summut  to  saay, 
An'  I  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owt  to  a'  said  an'  I  coomed  away. 

Bessy  Marris's  barn!  tha  knaws  she  laaid  it  to  mea. 
Mowt  a  bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a  bad  un,  shea. 
'Siver,  I  kep  un,  my  lass,  tha  mun  understond; 
I  done  my  duty  by  un,  as  I  'a  done  by  the  lond. 

3ut  Parson  a  comes  an'  a  goos,  an'  a  says  it  easy  an'  freea 

"  The  amoighty  's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen,  my  friend,"  says  'ea. 

I  weant  saay  men  be  loiars,  thof  summun  said  it  in  'aaste: 

But  a  reads  wonn  sarmin  a  weeak,  an'  I  'a  stubb'd  Thornaby  waaste. 

D'  ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass?  naw,  naw,  tha  was  not  born  then; 

Theer  wur  a  boggle  in  it,  I  often  '  erd  un  mysen: 

Moast  loike  a  butter-bump,  j*  for  I  'eerd  un  aboot  an  aboot, 

But  I  stubb'd  un  oop  wi'  the  lot,  and  raaved  an'  rembled  un  oot. 

Reaper's  it  wur;  fo'  they  fun  un  theer  a  laaid  on  'is  faace 
Doon  i'  the  woil  'enemies  J  afore  I  corned  to  the  plaace. 
Noaks  or  Thimbleby — toner  'ed  shot  an  as  dead  as  a  naail. 
Noaks  wur  'ang'd  fur  it  oop  at  'soize — but  git  ma  my  yaale. 

Dubbut  looak  at  the  waaste:  theer  war  n't  not  fead  for  a  cow; 
Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzz,  an'  looak  at  it  now — 
War  n't  worth  nowt  a  haacre,  an'  now  theer  's  lots  o'  feead, 
Fourscoore  yows  upon  it  an'  some  on  it  doon  in  seead. 

Nobbut  a  bit  on  it 's  left,  an'  I  mean'd  to  'a  stubb'd  it  at  fall, 
Done  it  ta-year  I  mean'd,  an'  runn'd  plow  thrufF  it  an'  all, 
A  godamoighty  an'  parson  'ud  nobbut  let  ma  aloan, 
Mea,  wi'  haate  oonderd  haacre  o'  Squoire's  an'  lond  o'  my  oan. 

Do  godamoighty  knaw  what  a  's  doing  a-taakin'  o'  mea? 

I  beant  wonn  as  saws  'ere  a  bean  an'  yonder  a  pea; 

An'  Squoire  'ull  be  sa  mad  an'  all — a'  dear  a'  dear! 

An'  I  'a  monaged  for  Squoire  come  Michaelmas  thirty  year. 

SE 

•  Cockchafer.    tBittern.    ^Anemones. 


NORTH BRN  FARMER.  767 


A  mowt  'a  taaken  Joanes,  as  'ant  a  'aaporth  o*  sense, 
Or  a  mowt  'a  taaken  Robins — a  niver  mended  a  fence: 
But  godamoighty  a  moost  taake  met  an'  taake  ma  now 
Wi'  auf  the  cows  to  cauve  an'  Thornaby  holms  to  plow! 

Looak  'ow  quoloty  smoiles  when  they  seeas  ma  Marin'  l>v, 

Says  to  theaaen  naw  doot  "  whot  a  mon  a  be  sewer-ly!  " 

For  they  knaws  what  I  bean  to  Squoire  sin  fust  a  coomed  to  the  'All; 

I  done  my  duty  by  Squoire  an'  I  done  my  duty  by  all. 

Squoire  's  in  Lunnon,  an1  lammon  I  reckons  'ull  'a  to  wroite, 

For  whoa  \s  tc»  howd  the  1<mi<1  after  mea  thot  muddles   ma  quoit; 
Sartin-sewer  I  bea,  thot  a  weant  niver  give  it  to  Joanes, 
Noither  a  moant  to  Robins — a  niver  rembles  the  stoan-. 

But  summun  Ml  come  ater  mea  mayhap  wi'  'is  kittle  O1  steam 
Huzzin'  an'  maazin'  the  blessed  fealda  wi'  the  Divil's  oan  team. 
Gin  I  mun  doy  I  man  doy,  an1  loife  they  says  is  sw< 
But  gin  I  mon  doy  1  mon  doy,  for  I  couldn  abear  to  see  it. 

What  atta  stannin'  theer  for,  an'  doesn  bring  ma  the  yaale? 
Doctor  's  a  tottler,  lass,  and  a  \  hallus  i'  the  own  taale: 
I  weant  break  rules  fur  Doctor,  a  knaws  naw  moor  nor  a  floy; 
Git  ma  my  yaale  I  tell  tha,  an'  gin  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy. 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 

NEW  STYLE. 

OSN'T  thou  'ear  my  Vr-i '  they  canton  awaay? 

Proputty,  proputty,  proputty — that's  what  lay. 

Proputty,  proputty,  proputty — Sam, thou's an  ;i-s  for  thy  paalna: 
Thecr's  moor  sense  i'  one  o'  'is  legs  nor  in  all   thy  braaius. 


Woa — theer's  a  craw  to  pluck  wi'  tha,  Sam :  yon  's  parson's  'ou6e- 
Dosn't  thou  knaw  that  a  man  mun  be  eatlur  a  man  or  a  mouse? 
Time  to  think  on  it  then;  for  thou'll  be  twenty  to  weeak.* 
Proputty,  proputty — woa  then  woa — let  ma  'ear  mysen  speak. 

•TbU  week. 


768  NORTHERN  FARMER. 


Me  an'  thy  muther,  Sammy,  'as  bean  a-talkin'  o'  thee; 
Thou's  bean  talkin'  to  muther,  an'  she  bean  a  tellin  it  me. 
Thou'll  not  marry  for  munny — thou's  sweet  upo'  parson's  lass — 
Noa — thou'll  marry  for  luvv — an'  we  boath  on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 

Seea'd  her  todaay  goa  by — Saaint's  daay — they  was  ringing  the  bells. 
She's  a  beauty  thou  thinks — an'  soa  is  scoors  o'  gells, 
Them  as  'as  munny  an'  all — wot  's  a  beauty  ? — the  flower  as  blaws. 
But  proputty,  proputty  sticks,  an'  proputty,  proputty  graws. 

Do'ant  be  stunt:*  taake  time:  I  knaws  what  maakes  tha  sa  mad. 
Warn't  I  craazed  fur  the  lasses  mysen  when  I  wur  a  lad? 
But  I  knaw'd  a  Quaaker  feller  as  often  'as  towd  ma  this: 
"  Doant  thou  marry  for  munny,  but  goa  wheer  munny  is! " 

An'  I  went  wheer  munny  war:  an'  thy  muther  coom  to  'and, 

WiMots  o'  munny  laaid  by,  an'  a  nicetish  bit  o'  land. 

Maybe  she  waarn't  a  beauty : — I  niver  give  it  a  thowt — 

But  warn't  she  as  good  to  cuddle  an'  kiss  as  a  lass  as  'ant  nowt? 

Parson's  lass  'ant  nowt,  an'  she  weant  'a  nowt  when  'e  's  dead, 
Mun  be  a  guvness,  lad,  or  summut,  and  addle^  her  bread: 
Why?  fur  e'  's  nobbut  a  curate,  an'  weant  niver  git  naw  'igher; 
An'  'e  maade  the  bed  as  'e  ligs  on  afoor  'e  coom'd  to  the  shire. 

♦ 
An'  thin  'e  coom'd  to  the  parish  wi'  lots  o'  'Varsity  debt, 
Stook  to  his  taail  they  did,  an'  'e  'ant  got  shut  on  'em  yet. 
An'  'e  ligs  on  'is  back  i'  the  grip,  wi'  noan  to  lend  'im  a  shove, 
Woorse  nor  a  far-welter'dj  yowe:  fur  Sammy,  'e  married  fur  luw. 

Luvv?     What's  luvv?  thou  can  luvv  thy  lass  an'  her  munny  too, 
Maakin'  'em  goa  togither  as  they've  good  right  to  do. 
Could'n  I  luvv  thy  muther  by  cause  o'  'er  munny  laid  by? 
Naay — for  I  luvv'd  'er  a  vast  sight  moor  fur  it:  reason  why. 

Ay  an'  thy  muther  says  thou  wants  to  marry  the  lass, 
Comes  of  a  gentleman  burn:  an'  we  boath  on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 
Woa  then,  proputty,  wiltha? — an  ass  as  nearas  mays  nowt| — 
Woa  then,  wiltha  ?  dangtha ! — the  bees  is  as  fell  as  owt.§ 

*  Obstinate,     t  Earn.    %  Or  fow- welter'd— said  of  a  sheep  lying  on  its  back  in  a  furrow. 
|  Makes  nothing.    §  The  flies  are  as  fierce  as  anything. 


If  ESQ  U I  ESC  A  T%  769 


Break  me  a  bit  o'  the  esh  for  his  'ead,  lad,  out  o'  the  fence! 
Gentleman  bum!  what 's  gentleman  burn:  is  it  shillins  an  pence? 
Proputty,  proputty  's  ivrything  'ere,  an',  Sammy,  I'm  blest 
If  it  isn't  the  saame  oop  yonder,  fur  them  as  'as  it  's  the  best. 

Tis'n  them  as  'as  munny  as  breaks  into  'ouses  an'  steals, 
Them  as  'as  coats  to  their  backs  an'  taakes  their  regular  meals. 
Noa,  but  it's  them  as  niver  knaws  wheer  a  meal  's  to  be  'ad. 
Taake  my  word  fur  it,  Sammy,  the  poor  in  a  loomp  is  bad. 

Them  or  thir  feythers,  tha  sees,  mun  'a  bean  a  lazy  lot, 
Fur  work  mun  'a  gone  to  the  gittin'  whiniver  nuinnv  was  got. 
Feyther  'ad  ammost  nowt;  leastwaays  'is  mutiny  vrM  'id 
But  'e  tued  an'  moil'd  issen  dead,  an'  V  died  a  good  un,  V  did. 

Looak  thou  theer  wheer  Wrigglesby  beck  comes  out  by  the  'ill! 
Feyther  nm  up  to  the  farm,  an'  I  runs  up  to  the  mill; 
An'  I'll  run  up  to  the  brig,  an'  that  thou'll  live  to  see; 
An'  if  thou  marries  a  good  un  I'll  leave  the  land  to  thee. 

Thim's  my  noations,  Sammy,  wheerby  I  means  to  stick; 
But  if  thou  marries  a  bad  un,  I'll  leave  the  land  to  Dick. — 
Coom  oop,  proputty,  proputty — that's  what  I  'ears  'im  saay — 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty — canter  an'  canter  awn 


REQUIEJ8CAT. 


AIR  is  her  cottage  in  its  place, 

Where  yon  broad  water  sweetly,  slowly  glides. 
^It  sees  itself  from  thatch  to  base 
Dream  in  the  sliding  tides. 

And  fairer  she,  but  ah,  how  soon  to  die! 

Her  quiet  dream  of  life  this  hour  rnaj  cease. 
Her  peaceful  being  slowly  passes  by 

To  some  more  perfect  peace. 


770 


TITHONUS. 


TITHONUS. 


HE  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and  fall, 
The  vapors  weep  their  burthen  to  the  ground, 
Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and  lies  beneath, 
And  after  many  a  summer  dies  the  swan. 
Me  only  cruel  immortality 
Consumes :  I  wither  slowly  in  thine  arms, 
Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 
A  white-hair'd  shadow  roaming  like  a  dream 
The  ever  silent  spaces  of  the  East, 
Far-folded  mists,  and  gleaming  halls  of  morn. 

Alas!  for  this  gray  shadow,  once  a  man — 
So  glorious  in  his  beauty  and  thy  choice,  . 
Who  madest  him  thy  chosen,  that  he  seem'd 
To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a  God ! 
I  ask'd  thee  "  Give  me  immortality." 
Then  didst  thou  grant  mine  asking  with  a  smile, 

Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how  they  give. 

But  thy  strong  Hours  indignant  work'd  their  wills. 

And  beat  me  down  and  marred  and  wasted  me, 

And  tho'  they  could  not  end  me,  left  me.maim'd 

To  dwell  in  presence  of  immortal  youth, 

Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth, 

And  all  I  was,  in  ashes.     Can  thy  love, 

Th}'  beauty  make  amends,  tho'  even  now, 

Close  over  us,  the  silver  star,  thy  guide, 

Shine  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that  fill  with  tears 

To  hear  me  ?     Let  me  go :  take  back  thy  gift : 

Why  should  a  man  desire  in  any  way 

To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men, 

Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  of  ordinance 

Where  all  should  pause,  as  is  most  meet  for  all? 


A  soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart:  there  comes 
A  glimpse  of  that  dark  world  where  I  was  born. 
Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glimmer  steals 
From  thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy  shoulders  pure, 


itnmxjs.  77] 


And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  renewM. 
Thy  cheek  begins  to  redden  thro'  the  gloom, 
Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close  to  mine, 
Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the  wild  team 
Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy  yoke,  arise, 
And  shake  the  darkness  from  their  loose -\\\\  manes, 
And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of  fire. 

Lo!  ever  thus  thou  growesf  beautiful 
In  silence,  then  before  thine  answer  given 
Departest,  and  thy  tears  are  on  my  che« 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  scare  me  with  thy  tears, 
And  make  me  tremble  lest  a  saying  learnt 
In  days  far-off,  on  that  dark  earth,  be  true? 
"The  Gods  themselves  cannot  recall  their  gifts." 

Ay  me!  ay  me!  with  what  another  heart 
In  days  far-off,  and  with  what  other  ey< 
I  used  to  watch — if  I  be  he  that  watch'd — 
The  lucid  outline  forming  round  thee;  saw 
The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings; 
Chang'd  with  thy  mystic  change,  and  felt  my  bUy* 
Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowly  crimson'd  all 
Thy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while  I  lay, 
Mouth,  forehead,  eyelids,  growing  dewy-warm 
With  kisses  balmier  than  half-opening  buds 
Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that  luss'd 
Whispering  I  knew  not  what  of  wild  and  sweet, 
Like  that  strange  song  I  heard  Apollo  sing, 
While  Uion  like  a  mist  rose  into  towers. 

Yet  hold  me  not  forever  in  thine  East ; 
How  can  my  nature  longer  mix  with  th 
Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me,  cold 
Are  all  thy  lights,  and  cold  my  wrinkled  feet 
Upon  thy  glimmering  thresholds,  when  the  steam 
Floats  up  from  those  dim  fields  about  the  homes 
Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power  to  die, 
And  grassy  barrows  of  the  happier  dead, 
Release  me,  and  restore  me  to  the  ground; 
Thou  seest  all  things,  thou  wilt  see  my  grave: 
Thou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  morn  by  morn; 


772, 


THE    VOYAGE . 


I  earth  in  earth  forget  these  empty  courts, 
And  thee  returning  on  thy  silver  wheels. 


~+$=Mm&*£&*' 


THE   VOTAGE. 


E  left  behind  the  painted  buoy 

That  tosses  at  the  harbor-mouth: 
And  madly  danced  our  hearts  with  joy, 

As  fast  we  fleeted  to  the  South : 
How  fresh  was  every  sight  and  sound. 

On  open  main  or  winding  shore! 
We  knew  the  merry  world  was  round, 

And  we  might  sail  forevermore. 

Warm  broke  the  breeze  against  the  brow, 

Dry  sang  the  tackle,  sang  the  sail : 
The  Lady's-head  upon  the  prow 

Caught  the  shrill  salt,  and  sheer'd  the  gale. 
The  broad  seas  swell'd  to  meet  the  keel, 

And  swept  behind :  so  quick  the  run, 
WTe  felt  the  good  ship  shake  and  reel, 

We  seem'd  to  sail  into  the  Sun! 


How  oft  we  saw  the  Sun  retire, 

And  burn  the  threshold  of  the  night, 
Fall  from  his  ocean-lane  of  fire, 

And  sleep  beneath  his  pillar'd  light! 
How  oft  the  purple-skirted  robe 

Of  twilight  slowly  downward  drawn, 
As  thro'  the  slumber  of  the  globe 

Again  we  dash'd  into  the  dawn! 


New  stars  1 11  night  above  the  brim 
Of  waters  lighten'd  into  view; 

They  climb'd  as  quickly,  for  the  rim 
Changed  every  moment  as  we  flew. 

Far  ran  the  naked  moon  across 

The  houseless  ocean's  heaving  field, 


THE    VOYAGE.  ^73 


Or  flying  shone,  the  silver  boss 
Of  her  own  halo's  dusky  shield; 

The  peaky  islet  shifted  shapes, 

Ili^h  towns  on  hills  were-  dimly  seen, 
We  past  long  lines  of  Northern  capes 


And  dewy  Northern  meadows  green. 
We  came  to  warmer  waves,  and  d< 

Across  tlu>  boundless  East  we  drove, 
Where  those  long  swells  of  breaker  -weep 

The  nutmeg  rocks  and  isles  of  clove. 

By  peaks  that  flain'd,  or,  all  in  shade, 

GloomM  the  low  coast  and  quivering  brine 
With  asliv  rains,  that  spreading  made 

Fantastic  plume  or  sable  pine; 
By  sands  and  streaming  flats,  and  floods 

Of  mighty  mouth,  we  scudded  fast, 
And  hills  and  scarlet-mingled  woods 

Glow'd  for  a  moment  as  we  past 

O  hundred  shores  of  happy  climes, 
I  low  swiftly  stream'd  ye  by  the  bark! 

At  times  the  whole  sea  huniM,  at  times 
With  wakes  of  tire  we  tore  the  dark; 

At  times  the  carven  craft  would  shoot 
From  havens  hid  in  fairy  bow 

With  naked  limbs  and  flowers  and  fruit, 
But  we  nor  paused  tor  fruits  nor  flowers. 

For  one  fair  Vision  ever  fled 

Down  the  waste  waters  day  and  night. 


Hi  THE    VOTAOM. 


And  still  we  follow'd  where  she  led 
In  hope  to  gain  upon  her  flight. 

Her  face  was  evermore  unseen, 
And  fixt  upon  the  far  sea-line; 

But  each  man  murmured,  "  O  my  Queen, 
I  follow  till  I  make  thee  mine." 

And  now  we  lost  her,  now  she  gleam'd 

Like  Fancy  made  of  golden  air, 
Now  nearer  to  the  prow  she  seem'd 

Like  Virtue  firm,  like  Knowledge  fair, 
Now  high  on  waves  that  \d\y  burst 

Like  Heavenly  Hope  she  crown'd  the  sea, 
And  now,  the  bloodless  point  revers'd, 

She  bore  the  blade  of  Liberty. 

And  only  one  among  us — him 

We  pleas'd  not — he  was  seldom  pleas'd : 
He  saw  not  far:  his  eyes  were  dim: 

But  ours  he  swore  was  all  diseas'd, 
"  A  ship  of  fools,"  he  shriekVl  in  spite, 

"  A  ship  of  fools,"  he  sneer'd  and  wept. 
And  overboard  one  stormy  night 

He  cast  his  body,  and  on  we  swept. 

And  never  sail  of  ours  was  furl'd 

Nor  anchor  dropt  at  eve  or  morn; 
We  loved  the  glories  of  the  world, 

But  laws  of  nature  were  our  scorn; 
For  blasts  would  rise  and  rave  and  cease, 

But  whence  were  those  that  drove  the  sail 
Across  the  whirlwind's  heart  of  peace, 

And  to  and  thro'  the  counter-gale? 

Again  to  colder  climes  we  came, 

For  still  we  follow'd  where  she  led: 
Now  mate  is  blind  and  captain  lame, 

And  half  the  crew  are  sick  or  dead. 
But  blind  or  lame  or  sick  or  sound, 

We  follow'd  that  which  flies  before; 
We  know  the  merry  world  is  round, 

And  we  may  sail  forevermore. 


LUCRETIUS. 


775 


LUCRETIUS. 


UCILIA,  wedded  to  Lucretius,  found 

Her  master  cold;  for  when  the  morning  flush 
Of  passion  and  the  first  embrace  had  died 
Between  them,  tho'  he  loved  her  none  the  less, 
Yet  often  when  the  women  heard  his  foot 
Returning  from  pacings  in  the  field,  and  ran 
To  greet  him  with  a  kiss,  the  master  took 
Small  notice,  or  austerely,  for — his  mind 
Half-buried  in  some  weightier  argument, 
Or  fancy-borne  perhaps  upon  the  rise 
And  long  roll  of  the  Hexameter — he  past 
To  turn  and  ponder  those  three  hundred  scrolls 
Left  by  the  Teacher  whom  he  held  divine. 
She  brooked  it  not;  but  wrathful,  petulant, 
Dreaming  some  rival,  sought  and  found  a  witch 
Who  brew'd  the  philtre  which  had  power,  they  said, 
To  lead  an  errant  passion  home  again. 
And  this,  at  times,  she  mingled  with  his  drink, 
And  this  destroyed  him ;  for  the  wicked  broth 
Confus'd  the  chemic  labor  of  the  Wood, 
And  tickling  the  brute  brain  within  the  man's, 
Made  havoc  among  those  tender  cells,  and  check'd 
His  power  to  shape:  he  loathM  himself;  and  once 
After  a  tempest  woke  upon  a  morn 
That  mock'd  him  with  returning  calm,  and  cried : 


"Storm  in  the  night!  for  thrice  I  heard  the  rain 
Rushing;  and  once  the  flash  of  a  thunderbolt — 
Methought  I  never  saw  so  fierce  a  fork — 
Struck  out  the  streaming  mountain-side,  and  show'd 
A  riotous  confluence  of  watercourses 
Blanching  and  billowing  in  a  hollow  of  it, 
Where  all  but  yester-eve  was  dusty-dry. 


"  Storm,  and  what  dreams,  ye  holy  Gods,  what  dreams! 
For  thrice  I  waken'd  after  dreams.     Perchance 
We  do  but  recollect  the  dreams  that  come 


77(5  LUCRETIUS. 


Just  ere  the  waking:  terrible!  for  it  seem'd 

A  void  was  made  in  Nature;  all  her  bonds 

Crack'd;  and  I  saw  the  flaring  atom-streams 

And  torrents  of  her  myriad  universe, 

Ruining  along  the  illimitable  inane, 

Fly  on  to  clash  together  again,  and  make 

Another  and  another  frame  of  things 

Forever:  that  was  mine,  my  dream,  I  knew  it — 

Of  and  belonging  to  me,  as  the  dog 

With  inward  yelp  and  restless  forefoot  plies 

His  function  of  the  woodland;  but  the  next! 

I  thought  that  all  the  blood  by  Sylla  shed 

Came  driving  rainlike  down  again  on  earth, 

And  where  it  dash'd  the  reddening  meadow,  sprang 

No  dragon  warriors  from  Cad  mean  teeth, 

For  these  I  thought  my  dream  would  show  to  me, 

But  girls,  Hetairai,  curious  in  their  art, 

Hired  animalisms,  vile  as  those  that  made 

The  mulberry-faced  Dictator's  orgies  worse 

Than  aught  they  fable  of  the  quiet  Gods. 

And  hands  they  mixt,  and  yell'd  and  round  me  drove 

In  narrowing  circles  till  I  yell'd  again, 

Half-suffocated,  and  sprang  up,  and  saw — 

Was  it  the  first  beam  of  my  latest  day? 

"  Then,  then,  from  utter  gloom  stood  out  the  breasts, 
The  breasts  of  Helen,  and  hoveringly  a  sword 
Now  over  and  now  under,  now  direct, 
Pointed  itself  to  pierce,  but  sank  down  shamed 
At  all  that  beauty;  and  as  I  stared,  a  fire, 
The  fire  that  left  a  roofless  Ilion, 
Shot  out  of  them,  and  scorch'd  me  that  I  wToke. 

"  Is  this  thy  vengeance,  holy  Venus,  thine, 
Because  I  would  not  one  of  thine  own  doves, 
Not  ev'n  a  rose,  were  ofFer'd  to  thee?  thine, 
Forgetful  how  my  rich  procemion  makes 
Thy  glory  fly  along  the  Italian  field, 
In  lays  that  will  outlast  thy  Deity? 

"Deity?  nay,  thy  worshippers.     My  tongue 
Trips,  or  I  speak  profanely.     Which  of  these 
Angers  thee  most,  or  angers  thee  at  all? 
Not  if  thou  be'st  of  those  who,  far  aloof 


LUCRETIUS. 


777 


From  envy,  hate  and  pity,  and  spite  and  scorn, 
Live  the  great  life  which  all  our  greatest  fain 
Would  follow,  centrd  in  eternal  calm. 

*    \'ay,  if  thou  canst,  O  Goddess,  like  ourselves 
Touch,  and  be  totich'd,  then  would  i  cry  to  thee 
To  kiss  thy  Mavors,  roll  thy  tender  arms 
Round  him,  and  keep  him  from  the  lust  of  blood 
That  makes  a  itcaming  •laughter-house  of  Rome. 

"Ay,  but  I  meant  not  thee;  1  meant  not  her, 
Whom  all  the  pines  of  Ida  shook  to  see 
Slide  from  that  quiet  heaven  of  hers,  and  tempt 
The  Trojan,  while  btfl  neat-herda  were  abroad; 
Nor  her  that  o'er  her  wounded  hunter  wept 
Her  Deity  false  in   human-amorous  tea: 
Nor  whom  her  beardless  apple-arbiter 
Decided  fairest     Rather,  O  ye  Gods, 
Poet-like,  as  the  great  Sicilian  calPd 
Calliope  to  grace  his  golden  verse — 
Ay,  and  this  Kypris  also — did  I  take 
That  popular  name  of  thine  to  shadow  forth 
The  all-generating  powers  and  genial  heat 
Of  Nature,  when  she  strikes  thro*  the  thick  blood 
Of  cattle,  and  light  is  large,  and  lambs  are  glad 
Nosing  the  mother's  udder,  and  the  bird 


^r-tfrSfflTfivk^ 


Makes  his  heart  voice  amid  tne  blaze  of  flov 
Which  things  appear  the  work  of  mighty  Gods, 


778  LUCRETIUS. 


"The  Gods!  and  if  I  go  my  work  is  left 
Unfinished — if  I  go.     The  Gods,  who  haunt 
The  lucid  interspace  of  world  and  world, 
Where  never  creeps  a  cloud,  or  moves  a  wind, 
Nor  ever  falls  the  least  white  star  of  snow, 
Nor  ever  lowest  roll  of  thunder  moans, 
Nor  sound  of  human  sorrow  mounts  to  mar 
Their  sacred  everlasting  calm !  and  such, 
Not  all  so  fine,  nor  so  divine  a  calm, 
Not  such,  nor  all  unlike  it,  man  may  gain 
Letting  his  own  life  go.     The  Gods,  the  Gods! 
If  all  be  atoms,  how  then  should  the  Gods 
Being  atomic  not  be  dissoluble, 
Not  follow  the  great  law?     My  master  held 
That  Gods  there  are,  for  all  men  so  believe. 
I  prest  my  footsteps  into  his,  and  meant 
Surely  to  lead  my  Memmius  in  a  train 
Of  flowery  clauses  onward  to  the  proof 
That  Gods  there  are,  and  deathless.     Meant?     I  meant? 
I  have  forgotten  what  I  meant:  my  mind 
Stumbles,  and  all  my  faculties  are  lamed. 


"  Look  where  another  of  our  Gods,  the  Sun, 
Apollo,  Delius,  or  of  older  use 
All-seeing  Hyperion — what  you  will — 


Has  mounted  yonder:  since  he  never  sware, 
Except  his  wrath  were  wreak'd  on  wretched  man, 
That  he  would  only  shine  among  the  dead 
Hereafter;  tales!  for  never  yet  on  earth 
Could  dead  flesh  creep,  or  bits  of  roasting  ox 
Moan  round  the  spit — nor  knows  he  what  he  sees; 
King  of  the  East  altho'  he  seem,  and  girt 
With  song  and  flame  and  fragrance,  slowly  lifts 
His  golden  feet  on  those  empurpled  stairs 
That  climb  into  the  windy  halls  of  heaven: 
And  here  he  glances  on  an  eye  new-born, 
And  gets  for  greeting  but  a  wail  of  pain; 
And  here  he  stays  upon  a  freezing  orb 
That  fain  would  gaze  upon  him  to  the  last; 
And  here  upon  a  yellow  eyelid  fall'n 
And  closed  by  those  who  mourn  a  friend  in  vain; 
Not  thankful  that  his  troubles  are  no  more. 
And  me,  altho'  his  fire  is  on  my  face 
Binding,  he  sees  not,  nor  at  all  can  tell 
Whether  I  mean  this  day  to  end  myself, 


LUCRETIUS.  779 


Or  lend  an  ear  to  Plato  where  he  says, 

That  men  like  soldiers  may  not  quit  the  post 

Allotted  by  the  Gods:  but  he  that  holds 

The  Gods  are  careless,  wherefore  need  he  care 

Greatly  for  them,  nor  rather  plunge  at  once, 

Being  troubled,  wholly  out  of  sight,  and  sink 

Past  earthquake — ay,  and  gout  and  stone,  that  break 

Body  toward  death,  and  palsy,  death-in-life, 

And  wretched  age — and  worst  disease  of  all, 

These  prodigies  of  myriad  nakedness, 

And  twisted  shapes  of  lust,  unspeakable, 

Abominable,  strangers  at  my  hearth 

Not  welcome,  harpies   miring  every  dish, 

The  phantom  husks  of  something  foully  done, 

And  fleeting  thro'  the  boundless  universe, 

And  blasting  the  long  quiet  of  my  breast 

With  animal  heat  and  dire  insanity? 

"  How  should  the  mind,  except  it  loved  them,  clasp 
These  idols  to  herself  ?  or  do  they  fly 
Now  thinner,  and  now  thicker,  like  the  flakes 
In  a  fall  of  snow,  and  so  press  in,  perforce 
Of  multitude,  as  crowds  that  in  an  hour 
Of  civic  tumuli  jam  the  doors,  and  bear 
The  keepers  down,  and  throng,  their  rags  and  they, 
The  basest,  far  into  that  council-hall 
Where  sit  the  best  and  stateliest  of  the  land? 

"  Can  I  not  fling  this  horror  off  me  again, 
Seeing  with  how  great  ease  Nature  can  smile, 
Balmier  and  nobler  from  her  bath  of  storm, 
At  random  ravage?  and  how  easily 
The  mountain  there  has  cast  his  cloudy  slough, 
Now  towering  o'er  him  in  serenest  air, 
A  mountain  o'er  a  mountain, — ay,  and  within 
All  hollow  as  the  hopes  and  fears  of  men. 

**  But  who  was  he  that  in  the  garden  snared 
Picus  and  Faunus,  rustic  Gods?  a  tale 
To  laugh  at — more  to  laugh  at  in  myself — 
For  look!  what  is  it?  there?  yon  arbutus 
Totters;  a  noiseless  riot  underneath 
Strikes  through  the  wood,  sets  all  the  tops  quivering- 
The  mountain  quickens  into  Nymph  and  Faun; 


780 


LUCRETIUS. 


And  here  an  Oread — how  the  sun  delights 

To  glance  and  shift  about  her  slippery  sides, 

And  rosy  knees  and  supple  roundedness, 

And  budded  bosom-peaks — who  this  way  runs 

Before  the  rest — A  satyr,  a  satyr,  see, 

Follows;  but  him  I  proved  impossible; 

Twy-natured  is  no  nature:  yet  he  draws 

Nearer  and  nearer,  and  I  scan  him  now 

Beastlier  than  any  phantom  of  his  kind 

That  ever  butted  his  rough  brother-brute 

For  lust  or  lusty  blood  or  provender; 

I  hate,  abhor,  spit,  sicken  at  him ;  and  she 

Loathes  him  as  well;  such  a  precipitate  heel, 

Fledged  as  it  were  with  Mercury's  ankle-wing, 

Whirls  her  to  me:  but  will  she  fling  herself, 

Shameless  upon  me?     Catch  her,  goatfoot:  nay, 

Hide,  hide  them,  million-myrtled  wilderness, 

And  cavern-shadowing  laurels,  hide !  do  I  wish — 

^fiat? — that  the  bush  were  leafless?  or  to  whelm 

All  of  them  in  one  massacre?     O  ye  Gods, 

I  know  you  careless,  yet,  behold,  to  you 

From  childly  wont  and  ancient  use  I  call — 

I  thought  I  lived  securely  as  yourselves — 

No  lewdness,  narrowing-envy,  monkey-spite, 

No  madness  of  ambition,  avarice,  none : 

No  larger  feast  than  under  plane  or  pine 

With  neighbors  laid  along  the  grass,  to  take 

Only  such  cups  as  left  us  friendly  warm, 

Affirming  each  his  own  philosophy — 

Nothing  to  mar  the  sober  majesties 

Of  settled,  sweet,  Epicurean  life. 

But  now  it  seems  some  unseen  monster  lays 

His  vast  and  filthy  hands  upon  my  will, 

Wrenching  it  backward  into  his:  and  spoils 

My  bliss  in  being;  and  it  was  not  great: 

For  save  when  shutting  reasons  up  in  rhythm, 

Or  Heliconian  honey  in  living  words, 

To  make  a  truth  less  harsh,  I  often  grew 

Tired  of  so  much  within  our  little  life, 

Or  of  so  little  in  our  little  life — 

Poor  little  life  that  toddles  half  an  hour 

Crown'd  with  a  flower  or  two,  and  there  an  end — 

And  since  the  nobler  pleasure  seems  to  fade, 

Why  should  I,  beastlike  as  I  find  myself, 

Not  manlike  end  myself  ? — our  privilege — 


LVCRETWS.  781 

What  beast  has  heart  to  do  it?      And  what  man, 

What  Roman  would  be  dragg'd  in  triumph  thus? 

Not  I;  not  he,  who  bean  one  name  with  her 

Whose  death-blow  struck  the  dateless  .loom  of  kings, 

When,  brooking  not  the  Tarquin  in  her  veins, 

She  made  her  blood  in  sight  of  Collatinc 

And  all  his  peers,  flushing  the  guiltiest  :i'u% 

Spout  from  the  maiden  fountain  in  her  heart. 

And  from  it  sprang  the  Commonwealth,  which  breaks 

As  I  am  breaking  now ! 

"  And  therefore  now 
Let  her,  that  is  the  w6mb  and  tomb  of  all, 
Great  Nature,  take,  and  forcing  far  apart 
Those  blind  beginnings  that  have  made  me  man, 
Dash  them  anew  together  at  her  will 
Thro'  all  her  cycles — into  man  once  more, 
Or  beast  or  bird  or  tish,  or  opulent  flower  : 
1  Wit  till  this  cosmic  order  everywhere 
Shatter'd  into  one  earthquake  in  one  da\ 
Cracks  all  to  pieces,— and  that  hour  perhaps 
Is  not  so  far  when  momentary  man 
Shall  seem  no  more  a  something  to  himself, 
But  he,  his  hopes  and  hates,  hit  homes  and    fanes, 
Ami  even  his  bones  long  laid  within  the  grave, 

The  very  sides  of  the  grave  itself  sh;ili  ; 

Vanishing,  atom  and  void,  atom  and  void, 

Into  the  unseen  forever, — till  that  hour. 

My  golden  work  in  which  I  told  a  truth 

That  stays  the  rolling  Ixionian  wheel. 

And  numbs  the  Fury's  ringlet-snake,  and  pluckfl 

The  mortal  soul  from  out  immortal  hell, 

Shall  stand:  ay,  surely;  then  it  fails  at  last 

And  perishes  as  I  miM;   for  O  Thou, 

Passionless  bride,  divine  Tranquillity, 

Yearn'd  after  by  the  wisest  of  the  wise, 

Who  faiFd  to  find  thee,  being  as  thou  art 

Without  one  pleasure  and  without  one  pain, 

Howbcit  I  know  thou  surely  must  be  mine 

Or  soon  or  late,  yet  out  of  season,  thus 

I  woo  thee  roughly,  for  thou  carest  not 

How  roughly  men  may  woo  thee  so  they  win — 

Thus — thus:  the  soul  flies  out  and  dies  in  the  air." 


782  THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM. 

With  that  he  drove  the  knife  into  his  side: 
She  heard  him  raging,  heard  him  fall;  ran  in, 
Beat  breast,  tore  hair,  cried  out  upon  herself 
As  having  fail'd  in  duty  to  him,  shriek'd 
That  she  but  meant  to  win  him  back,  fell  on  him, 
Clasp'd,  kiss'd  him,  wail'd:  he  answer'd,  "  Care  not  thou! 
Thy  duty  ?     What  is  duty  ?     Fare  thee  well !  " 


•-^S^sir&SS^" 


THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM. 


^HE  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the  hills  and  the  plains- 
<Are  not  these,  O  Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him  who  reigns? 


£1&      Is  not  the  Vision  He?  tho'  He.be  not  that  which  he  seems? 

Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do  we  not  live  in  dreams? 

Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of  body  and  limb, 
Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy  division  from  Him? 

Dark  is  the  world  to  thee :  thyself  art  the  reason  wrry  ? 

For  is  He  not  all  but  thou,  that  hast  power  to  feel  "  I  am  I? " 

Glory  about  thee,  without  thee;  and  thou  fulfillest  thy  doom 
Making  Him  broken  gleams,  and  a  stifled  splendor  and  gloom. 

Speak  to  Him  thou  for  He  hears,  and  Spirit  with  Spirit  can  meet- 
Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer  than  hands  and  feet. 

God  is  law,  say  the  wise ;  O  Soul,  and  let  us  rejoice, 
For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is  yet  His  voice. 

Law  is  God,  say  some:  no  God  at  all,  says  the  fool; 

For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a  straight  staff  bent  in  a  pool; 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear  and  the  eye  of  man  cannot  see; 
But  if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this  Vision — were  it  not  He? 


THE  NEW  TIM  ON  AND   THE  POETS.  788 


THE  NE  W  TIMON  AND  THE  POETS,    f 


E  know  him,  out  of  Shakespeare's  art, 

And  those  fine  curses  which  he  spoke; 
The  old  Timon,  with  his  noble  heart, 
That,  strongly  loathing,  greatly  broke. 

So  died  the  Old :  here  comes  the  New. 
Regard  him;  I  familiar  face: 
I  thought  we  knew  him:  What,  it'i  you 
The  padded  man — that  wears  the  stays — 

Who  killed  the  girls  and  thrilled  the  boys 
With  dandy  pathos  when  you  wrote! 

A  Lion,  you,  that  made  a  noise, 
And  shook  a  mane  en  papillotes. 

And  once  you  tried  the  Muses  too; 

You  failed,  Sir;  therefore  now  you  turn, 
To  fall  on  those  who  are  to  you 

As  Captain  is  to  Subaltern. 

But  men  of  long-enduring  hopes, 

And  careless  what  this  hour  may  bring, 

Can  pardon  little  would-be  Popes 

And  Brummels,  when  they  try  to  sting. 

An  Artist,  Sir,  should  rest  in  Art, 

And  waive  a  little  of  his  claim; 
To  have  the  deep  poetic  heart 

Is  more  than  all  poetic  fame. 

But  you,  Sir,  you  are  hard  to  please; 

You  never  look  but  half  content; 
Nor  like  a  gentleman  at  ease, 

With  moral  breadth  of  temperament 

Published  in  Punch,  February,  1846,  signed  "  Alcibisde*.M 


784 


THE  SKIPPING-ROPE. 


And  what  with  spites  and  what  with  fears, 

You  cannot  let  a  body  be: 
It's  always  ringing  in  your  ears, 
'    "  They  call  this  man  as  good  as  me" 

What  profits  now  to  understand 
The  merits  of  a  spotless  shirt — 

A  dapper  boot — a  little  hand — 
If  half  the  little  soul  is  dirt? 

You  talk  of  tinsel!  why  we  see 

The  old  mark  of  rouge  upon  your  cheeks. 
Tou  prate  of  Nature!  you  are  he 

That  spilt  his  life  about  the  cliques. 

A  Timon  you !     Nay,  nay,  for  shame : 

It  looks  too  arrogant  a  jest — 
The  fierce  old  man- — to  take  his  name, 

You  bandbox.     Off,  and  let  him  rest. 


..-»$s&9§!ir#t3«— 


THE  SKIPPING-ROPE. 


foURE  never  yet  was  Antelope 
Could  skip  so  lightly  by. 

t1^  Stand  off,  or  else  my  skipping-rope 
Will  hit  you  in  the  eye. 
|  How  lightly  whirls  the  skipping-rope! 

How  fairy-like  you  fly! 
Go,  get  you  gone,  you  muse  and  mope — 

I  hate  that  silly  sigh. 
Nay,  dearest,  teach  me  how  to  hope, 

Or  tell  me  how  to  die. 
There,  take  it,  take  my  skipping-rope, 
And  hang  yourself  thereby. 


ON  A  MOURNER. 


TS5 


ON  A  MOURNER. 


ATURE,  so  far  as  in  her  lies, 
Imitates  God,  and  turns  her  face 

To  every  land  beneath  the  skies, 
Counts  nothing  that  ^1k-  meets  with 

2JBut  lives  ami  l<»\cs  in  every  pi 

#  "^ 

Fills  out  the  homely  quick-set  screens, 

And  makes  the  purple   lilac  ripe, 
Steps  from  her  airy  hill,  and  greens 

The  swamp,  where  hums  the  dropping  snipe, 
With  moss  and  braided  marish-pip*. ■: 


And  on  thy  heart  a  finger  lays, 

Saying,  "  Beat  quicker,  for  the  time 

Is  pleasant,  and  the  woods  and  ways 
Are  pleasant,  and  the  beech  and  lime 
Put  forth  and  feel  a  gladder  clime." 


And  murmurs  of  a  deeper  voice, 
Going  before  to  some  far  shrine, 

Teach  that  sick  heart  the  stronger  choice, 
Till  all  thy  life  one  way  incline 
With  one  wide  will  that  closes  thine. 

And  when  the  zoning  eve  has  died 

Where  yon  dark  valleys  wind  forlorn, 

Come  Hope  and  Memory,  spouse  and  bride, 
From  out  the  borders  of  the  morn, 
With  that  fair  child  betwixt  them  born. 


50 


And  when  no  mortal  motion  jars 

The  blackness  round  the  tombing  sod, 

Thro'  silence  and  the  trembling  stars 

Comes  Faith  from  tracts  no  feet  have  trod, 
And  Virtue,  like  a  household  god, 


786 


THE  FLOWER. 


Promising  empire ;  such  as  those 

That  once  at  dead  of  night  did  greet 

Troy's  wandering  prince,  so  that  he  rose 
With  sacrifice,  while  all  the  fleet 
Had  rest  by  stony  hills  of  Crete. 


•**£3&^*c=3«~ 


THE  FLOWER. 


%  NCE  in  a  golden  hour 
I  cast  to  earth  a  seed. 
Up  there  came  a  flower, 
The  people  said,  a  weed. 


To  and  fro  they  went 

Thro'  my  garden-bower, 

And  muttering  discontent 
Curs'd  me  and  my  flower. 


Then  it  grew  so  tall 

It  wore  a  crown  of  light, 

But  thieves  from  o'er  the  wall 
Stole  the  seed  by  night. 

Sow'd  it  far  and  wide 

By  every  town  and  tower, 

Till  all  the  people  cried, 
"  Splendid  is  the  flower." 

Read  my  little  fable: 
He  that  runs  may  read. 

Most  can  raise  the  flowers  now, 
For  all  have  got  the  seed. 


And  some  are  pretty  enough, 
And  some  are  poor  indeed ; 

And  now  again  the  people 
Call  it  but  a  weed. 


THE  CAPTA/X  787 


THE  CAPTAIN. 

A    LEGEND    OF    THE    NAVY. 


that  only  rules  by  terror 
Doeth  grievous  wrong. 
Deep  as  Hell  I  count  his  error. 
Let  him  hear  my  song. 
Brave  the  Captain  was:  the  seamen 

Made  a  gallant  crew, 
Gallant  sons  of  English  freemen, 
Sailors  bold  and  true. 
But  they  hated  his  oppression, 

Stern  he  was  and  rash; 
So  for  every  light  transgression 

Doom'd  them  to  the  lash. 
Day  by  day  more  harsh  and  cruel 

Seem'd  the  Captain's  mood. 
Secret  wrath,  like  smothcr'd  fuel 

Burnt  in  each  man's  blood. 
Yet  he  hoped  to  purchase  glory, 

Hoped  to  make  the  name 
Of  his  vessel  great  in  story, 

Whereso'er  he  came. 
So  they  past  by  capes  and  islands, 

Many  a  harbor-mouth, 
Sailing  under  palmy  highlands 

Far  within  the  South. 
On  a  day  when  they  were  going 

O'er  the  lone  expanse, 
In  the  North,  her  canvas  flowing, 

Rose  a  ship  of  France. 
Then  the  Captain's  color  heighten'd, 

Joyful  came  his  speech: 
But  a  cloudy  gladness  lighten'd 

In  the  eyes  of  each. 
u  Chase,"  he  said :  the  ship  flew  forward. 
And  the  wind  did  blow: 


THE    CAPTAIN. 


Stately,  lightly,  went  she  Norward* 

Till  she  near'd  the  foe. 
Then  they  look'd  at  him  they  hated. 

Had  what  they  desired: 
Mute  with  folded  arms  they  waited — 

Not  a  gun  was  fired. 
But  they  heard  the  foeman's  thunder 

Roaring  out  their  doom; 
All  the  air  was  torn  in  sunder, 


m 


Crashing  went  the  boom, 
Spars  were  splinter'd,  decks  were  shatter'd, 

Bullets  fell  like  rain; 
Over  mast  and  deck  were  scattered 

Blood  and  brains  of  men. 
Spars  were  splinter'd:  decks  were  broken: 

Every  mother's  son — 
Down  they  dropt — no  word  was  spoken — 

Each  beside  his  gun. 
On  the  decks  as  they  were  lying, 


THE  RINGLET.  789 


Were  their  faces  grim. 
In  their  blood,  as  they  lay  dying, 

Did  they  smile  on  him. 
Those,  in  whom  he  hail  reliance 

For  his  noble  name, 
With  one  smile  of  still  defiance 

Sold  him  unto  shame. 
Shame  and  wrath  his  heart  confounded, 

Pale  he  turn'd  and  ml. 
Till  himself  was  deadly  wounded 

Falling  on  the  dead. 
Dismal  error!     Fearful  slaughter! 

Years  have  wanderM  by, 
Side  by  side  beneath  the  water 

Crew  and  Captain  lie; 
There  the  sunlit  ocean  tosses 

O'er  them  mouldering, 
And  the  lonely  seabird  crosses 

With  one  waft  of  the  wing. 


THE  RINGLET. 

OUR  ringlets,  your  ringlets, 

That  look  so  golden-gay, 
If  you  will  give  me  one,  but  one, 

To  kiss  it  night  and  day, 
Then  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 
Will  turn  it  silver-gray; 
And  then  shall  I  know  it  is  all  true  gold 
To  flame  and  sparkle  and  stream  as  of  old, 
Till  all  the  comets  in  heaven  are  cold, 

And  all  her  stars  decay." 
"  Then  take  it,  love,  and  put  it  by: 
This  cannot  change,  nor  yet  can  I." 

u  My  ringlet,  my  ringlet, 

That  art  so  golden-gay, 
Now  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 

Can  turn  thee  silver-gray ; 


790  THE  RINGLET. 


And  a  lad  may  wink,  and  a  girl  may  hint, 

And  a  fool  may  say  his  say; 
For  my  doubts  and  fears  were  all  amiss, 
And  I  swear  henceforth  by  this  and  this, 
That  a  doubt  will  only  come  for  a  kiss, . 

And  a  fear  to  be  kiss'd  away." 
"  Then  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by: 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  I." 


ii. 


0  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  kiss'd  you  night  and  day, 
And  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

You  still  are  golden  gay, 
But  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

You  should  be  silver-gray: 
For  what  is  this  which  now  I'm  told, 

1  that  took  you  for  true  gold, 

She  that  gave  you  's  bought  and  sold, 
Sold,  sold. 

O  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

She  blush'd  a  rosy  red, 
When  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

She  dipt  you  from  her  head, 
And  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

She  gave  you  me  and  said, 
"Come,  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by: 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  I." 
O  fie,  you  golden  nothing,  fie, 

You  golden  lie. 

O  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  count  you  much  to  blame, 

For  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

You  put  me  much  to  shame, 

So  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 
I  doom  you  to  the  flame. 

For  what  is  this  which  now  I  learn, 

Has  given  all  my  faith  a  turn  ? 

Burn,  you  glossy  heretic,  burn, 

Burn,  burn. 


THE  ISLET. 


791 


THE  ISLET. 


HITHER,  O  whither,  love,  shall  we  go, 
For  a  score  of  sweet  little  summers  or  so?  " 
The  sweet  little  wife  of  the  singer  said, 
'On  the  day  that  followM  the  day  she  was  wed 
«  Whither,  0  whither,  love,  shall  we  go?" 
Ami  the  singer  shaking  hi--  curly  head 
TurnM  as  he  sat,  ami  struck  the  keys 
There  at  his  right  with  u  sudden  crash, 
Singing,  "  And  shall  it  he  over  the  seas 
With  a  crew  that  is  neither  rude  nor  rash 
But  a  bevy  of  Eroses  apple-cheek'd, 
In  a  shallop  of  crystal  ivory-beak'd. 
With  a  satin  sail  of  a  ruhy  glow, 
To  a  sweet  little  Eden  en  earth  that  I  know, 


A  mountain  islet  pointed  and  peakM; 
Waves  on  a  diamond  shingle  dash, 
Cataract  brooks  to  the  ocean  run, 
Fairilv-delicate  palaces  shine 
Mixt  with  myrtle  and  clad  with  vine, 


792  WAGES. 


And  overstream'd  and  silvery-streak'd 
With  many  a  rivulet  high  against  the  sun 
The  facets  of  the  glorious  mountain  flash 
Above  the  valleys  of  palm  and  pine." 

«  Thither,  O  thither,  love,  let  us  go." 

"  No,  no,  no! 

For  in  all  that  exquisite  isle,  my  dear, 
There  is  but  one  bird  with  a  musical  throat, 
And  his  compass  is  but  of  a  single  note, 
That  it  makes  one  weary  to  hear." 

"  Mock  me  not!  mock  me  not!  love,  let  us  go." 

"  No,  love,  no. 

For  the  bud  ever  breaks  into  bloom  on  the  tree, 
And  a  storm  never  wakes  on  the  lonely  sea, 
And  a  worm  is  there  in  the  lonely  wood, 
That  pierces  the  liver  and  blackens  the  blood, 
And  makes  it  a  sorrow  to  be." 


flK:fCXfcC<" 


WAGES. 


LORY  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song, 
Paid  with  a  voice  flying  to  be  lost  on  an  endless  sea — 

Glory  of  Virtue,  to  fight,  to  struggle,  to  right  the  wrong — 
Nay,  but  she  aim'd  not  at  glory,  no  lover  of  glory  she: 

Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still  to  be. 

The  wages  of  sin  is  death:  if  the  wages  of  Virtue  be  dust, 

Would  she  have  heart  to  endure  for  the  life  of  the  worm  and 
the  fly? 

She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no  quiet  seats  of  the  just, 
To  rest  in  a  golden  grove,  or  to  bask  in  a  summer  sky: 

Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not  to  die. 


THE    VICTIM. 


793 


THE   VICTIM. 


PLAGUE  upon  the  people  fell, 
A  famine  after  laid  them  low, 
Then  thorpe  and  byre  arose  in  fire, 

For  on  them  brake  the-  Midden  foe; 
So  thick  they  died  the  people  cried, 

"  The  Gods  are  moved  against  the  land." 
The  Priest  in  horror  about  his  altar 
To  Thor  and  Odin  lifted  a  hand: 
"  Help  us  from  famine 
And  plague  and  strife! 
What  would  you  have  of  us? 
Human  life? 
Were  it  our  nearest, 
Were  it  our  dearest, 
(Answer,  O  answer) 
We  give  you  his  life." 


But  still  the  foeman  spoil'd  and  burn'd, 

And  cattle  died,  and  deer  in  wood, 
And  bird  in  air,  and  fishes  turn'd 

And  whiten'd  all  the  rolling  flood; 
And  dead  men  lay  all  over  the  way, 

Or  down  in  a  furrow  scathed  with  flame: 
And  ever  and  aye  the  Priesthood  moan'd 
Till  at  last  it  scem'd  that  an  answer  came: 
"  The  King  is  happy 
In  child  and  wife; 
Take  you  his  dearest, 
Give  us  a  life." 


The  Priest  went  out  by  heath  and  hill; 

The  King  was  hunting  in  the  wild; 
They  found  the  mother  sitting  still; 

She  cast  her  arms  about  the  child. 
The  child  was  only  eight  summers  old, 

His  beauty  still  with  his  years  increased, 


794  THE    VICTIM. 


His  face  was  ruddy,  his  hair  was  gold, 
He  seem'd  a  victim  due  to  the  priest. 
The  Priest  beheld  him, 
And  cried  with  joy, 
"The  Gods  have  answer'd: 
We  give  them  the  boy." 

The  King  return'd  from  out  the  wild, 

He  bore  but  little  game  in  hand; 
The  mother  said :  "  They  have  taken  the  child 

To  spill  his  blood  and  heal  the  land: 
The  land  is  sick,  the  people  diseased, 

And  blight  and  famine  on  all  the  lea: 
The  holy  Gods,  they  must  be  appeased, 
So  I  pray  you  tell  the  truth  to  me. 
They  have  taken  our  son, 
They  will  have  his  life. 
Is  he  your  dearest? 
Or  I,  the  wife?" 

The  King  bent  low,  with  hand  on  brow, 

He  stay'd  his  arms  upon  his  knee: 
"  O  wife,  what  use  to  answer  now? 

For  now  the  Priest  has  judged  for  me." 
The  King  was  shaken  with  holy  fear; 

"  The  Gods,"  he  said,  "  would  have  chosen  well; 
Yet  both  are  near,  and  both  are  dear, 
And  which  the  dearest  I  cannot  tell!" 
But  the  priest  was  happy, 
His  victim  won: 
"  We  have  his  dearest, 
His  only  son! " 

The  rites  prepared,  the  victim  bared, 

The  knife  uprising  toward  the  blow.. 
To  the  altar-stone  she  sprang  alone, 

"  Me,  not  my  darling,  no!" 
He  caught  her  away  with  a  sudden  cry: 

Suddenly  from  him  brake  his  wife, 
And  shrieking,  "  I  am  his  dearest,  I — 
/am  his  dearest!"  rush'd  on  the  knife. 
And  the  priest  was  happy, 
"  O  Father  Odin, 
We  give  you  a  life. 


1HE  SAILOR-BOT. 


795 


Which  was  his  nearest? 
Who  was  his  dearest? 
The  Gods  have  answer'd; 
We  give  them  the  wile!  M 


THE  SAILOR-BOT. 


,  rose  at  dawn  and,  fired  with  hope, 
Shot  o'er  the  seething  harbor-bar, 
And  reach'd  the  ship  and  caught  the  rope, 

And  whistled  to  the  morning  star. 

And  while  he  whistled  long  and  loud 
He  heard  a  fierce  nunnaiden  cry, 

"O  Boy,  tho'  thou  art  young  :md  proud, 
I  see  the  place  where  thou  wilt  lie. 


"  The  sands  and  yeasty  surges  mix 
In  caves  about  the  dreary  bay, 

And  on  thy  ribs  the  limpet  sticks, 

And  in  thy  heart  the  scrau  1  shall  play.' 

«  Fool,"   he  answerM,  "death  is  sure 
To  those  that  stay  and  those  that  roam, 

But  I  will  never  more  endure 

To  sit  with  empty  hands  at  home. 


"  My  mother  clings  about  my  w 

My  sisters  crying,  4  Stay,  far  ^'.ame;' 

My  father  raves  of  death  and  wrecK, 

They  are  all  to  blame,  they  are  all  to  blame. 


«  God  help  me!  save  1  take  my  part 
Of  danger  on  the  roaring  sea, 

A  devil  rises  in  my  heart, 

Far  worse  than  any  death  to  me." 


796  AFTER-THOUGHT. 


AFTER-THOUGHT.  * 


H  God !  the  petty  fools  of  rhyme 
Jjj      That  shriek  and  sweat  in  pigmy  wars 
Before  the  stormy  face  of  Time, 

And  look'd  at  by  the  silent  stars; — 


Who  hate  each  other  for  a  song, 
And  do  their  little  best  to  bite 

And  pinch  their  brethren  in  the  throng, 
And  scratch  the  very  dead  for  spite; — 

And  strain  to  make  an  inch  of  room 
For  their  sweet  selves,  and  cannot  bear 

The  sullen  Lethe  rolling  doom 

On  them  and  theirs  and  all  things  here;- 

When  one  small  touch  of  Charity 

Could  lift  them  nearer  God-like  state 

Than  if  the  crowded  Orb  should  cry 
Like  those  who  cried  Diana  great. 

And  I  too,  talk,  and  lose  the  touch 

I  talk  of.     Surely,  after  all 
The  noblest  answer  unto  such 

Is  kindly  stillness  when  they  bawl. 


*  From  Punch,  March  7,  1846,  signed  "  Alcibiades." 


THE   OPENING  OF  THE   INTERNATIONAL    EXHIBITION. 


797 


ODE  SUNG  AT  THE  OPENING  OF  THE  INTERNATIONAL 

EXHIBITION, 


j^fe** '  ■ ;  *  JC2&& 


PLIFT  a  thousand  voices  full  and  sweet, 
*       In  tins  wide  hall  with  earth's  invention  stored, 

And  praise  tlf  invisible  universal  Lord, 
f  Who  lets  once  more  in  peace  the  nations  meet, 
Lr      Where  Science,  Art,  and  Labor  have  outpOOf'd 
^     *5f*      Their  myriad  horns  of  plenty  at  our  feet. 


O  silent  father  of  our  Kings  to  be 

Mourn'd  in  this  golden  hour  of  jubilee, 

For  this,  for  all,  we  weep  our  thanks  to  thee! 

The  world-compelling  plan  was  thine, 

And  lo!  the  long  laborious  miles 

Of  Palace:  lo!  the  giant  aisles 

Rich  in  model  and  design; 

Harvest-tool  and  husbandi 

Loom  and  wheel  and  engin'ry 

Secrets  of  the  sullen  mine, 

Steel  and  gold,  and  corn  and  wine, 

Fabric  rough,  or  fairy-fine, 

Sunny  tokens  of  the  Line, 

Polar  marvels,  and  a  feast 

Of  wonder  out  of  West  and  East, 

And  shapes  and  hues  of  Art  divine! 

All  of  beauty,  all  of  use, 

That  one  fair  planet  can  produce. 


Brought  from  under  every  star. 
Blown  from  over  every  main, 
And  mixt,  as  life  is  mixt  with  pain, 

The  works  of  peace  with  works  of  war. 


O  ye,  the  wise  who  think,  the  wise  who  reign, 
From  growing  commerce  loose  her  latest  chain, 
And  let  the  fair  white-winirM  peace-maker  fly 
To  happy  havens  under  all  the  sky, 


7*)8 


SONNET  TO   WILLIAM  CHARLES  M ACRE  AD  T 


And  mix  the  seasons  and  the  golden  hours, 
Till  each  man  finds  his  own  in  all  men's  good, 
And  all  men  work  in  noble  brotherhood, 
Breaking  their  mailed  fleets  and  armed  towers, 
And  ruling  by  obeying  Nature's  powers, 

And  gathering  all  the  fruits  of  peace  and  crown'd  with  all  her 
flowers. 


>**?=&Srm*£=&** 


SONNET, 


TO    WILLIAM    CHARLES    MACREADY.* 


AREWELL,  Macready,  since  to-night  we  part. 
Full-handed  thunders  often  have  confest 
Thy  power,  well-used  to  move  the  public  breast. 
We  thank  thee  with  one  voice,  and  from  the  heart. 
Farewell,  Macready;  since  this  night  we  part. 
Go,  take  thine  honors  home:   rank  with  the  best, 
Garrick,  and  statelier  Kemble,  and  the  rest 
Who  made  a  nation  purer  thro'  their  art. 
Thine  is  it,  that  our  Drama  did  not  die, 
Nor  flicker  down  to  brainless  pantomime, 
And  those  gilt  gauds  men-children  swarm  to  see. 
Farewell,  Macready;  moral,  grave,  sublime. 
Our  Shakespeare's  bland  and  universal  eye 

Dwells  pleased,  thro'  twice  a  hundred  years,  on  thee. 


***** 


*  Read  bv  Mr.  John  Forster  at  a  dinner  given  to  Mr.  Macready,  March  i,  1851,  on  his  retirement  from  th« 


•t»ffe. 


44  And  crown'd  with  all  her  flowers.' 


STANZAS -THE    THIRD   OF  FBBRUART,   / 


STANZAS.* 
I 


HAT  rime  I  wasted  youthful  hours, 
One  of  the  shining  winged  powers 
fo     Show'd  me  vast  cliffi  with  crown  ui  lower*. 

As  toward  the  gracious  light  I  how'd, 
They  seemM  high  palaces  and  proud, 
Hid  now  and  then  by  sliding  cloud. 

He  said,  «  The  labor  is  not  small ; 
Yet  winds  the  pathway  free  to  all : — 
Take  care  thou  dost  not  fear  to  fall  1  * 


THE  THIRD  OF  FEBRUARY,  1852.1 


Y  lords,  we  heard  you  speak;  you  told  us  all 
That  England's  honest  censure  went  too  far; 

That  our  free  press  should  cease  to  brawl, 
Not  sting  the  fiery  Frenchman  into  war. 

It  was  an  ancient  privilege,  my  lords, 

To  fling  whatever  we  felt,  not  fearing,  into  wmln 


We  love  not  this  French  God,  this  child  of  H. 

Wild  War,  who  breaks  the  converse  of  the  wis* 
But  though  we  love  kind  Peace  so  well, 

We  dare  not,  e'en  by  silence,  sanction  1 
It  might  safe  be  our  censures  to  withdraw; 
And  yet,  my  lords,  not  well;  there  is  a  higher  law. 

As  long  as  we  remain,  we  must  speak  free, 

From  The  Ktefsakt,  1851.      f  From  Tk*  Enatmmrr,  iSp,  signed  M  Merlin." 


800 


THE  THIRD  OF  FEBRUART,  1852. 


Though  all  the  storm  of  Europe  on  us  break; 
No  little  German  state  are  we, 

But  the  one  voice  in  Europe ;  we  must  speak ; 
That  if  to-night  our  greatness  were  struck  dead, 

There  might  remain  some  record  of  the  things  we  said. 

If  you  be  fearful,  then  must  we  be  bold. 
Our  Britain  cannot  salve  a  tyrant  o'er. 


Better  the  waste  Atlantic  roll'd 

On  her  and  us  and  ours  forevermore. 
What!  have  we  fought  for  freedom  from  our  prime, 
At  last  to  dodge  and  palter  with  a  public  crime  ? 

Shall  we  fear  him?  our  own  we  never  feared. 

From  our  first  Charles;  by  force  we  wrung  our  claims, 
Prick'd  by  the  Papal  spur,  we  rear'd, 

And  flung  the  burden  of  the  second  James. 
I  say  we  never  fear'd!  and  as  for  these, 
We  broke  them  on  the  land,  we  drove  them  on  the  seas 


And  you,  my  lords,  you  make  the  people  muse, 
In  doubt  if  you  be  of  our  Barons'  breed — 

Were  those  your  sires  who  fought  at  Lewes? 
Is  this  the  manly  strain  of  Runnymede? 

O  fall'n  nobility,  that,  overaw'd, 

Would  lisp  in  honey'd  whispers  of  this  monstrous  fraud. 


BRITONS,  GUARD   TOUR  OWN 


801 


We  feel,  at  least,  that  silence  here  were  sin. 

Not  ours  the  fault  if  we  have  feeble  hosts— 
If  easy  patrons  of  their  kin 

Have  left  the  last  free  race  with  naked  coasts! 
They  knew  the  precious  things  they  had  to  guard : 
For  us,  we  will  not  spare  the  tyrant  one  hard  word. 

Though  niggard  throats  of  Manchester  may  bawl, 
What  England  was,  shall  her  true  sons  forget? 

We  are  not  cotton-spinners  all, 

But  some  love  England,  and  her  honor  yet. 

And  these  in  our  Thermopylae  shall  stand, 

And  hold  against  the  world  the  honor  of  the  land. 


BRITONS,  GUARD  TOUR  OWN.* 


1SE,  Britons,  rise,  it  manhood  be  not  dead; 

The  world's  last  tempest  darkens  overhead; 
The  Pope  has  bless'd  him: 
The  Church  caress'd  him  ; 
He  triumphs;  maybe  we  shall  stand  alone, 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

f 

His  ruthless  host  is  bought  with  plunder'd  gold, 
By  lying  priests  the  peasants'  votes  control  I'd. 

All  freedom  vanish'd, 

The  true  men  banish'd, 
He  triumphs :  maybe  we  shall  stand  alone. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Peace-lovers  we — sweet  Peace  we  all  desire — 
Peace-lovers  we — but  who  can  trust  a  liar? — 
Peace-lovers,  haters 
Of  shameless  traitors, 
We  hate  not  France,  but  this  man's  heart  of  stone. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

•  From  The  Examiner,  iSp. 


51 


802  BRITONS,  GUARD   TOUR  OWN. 

We  hate  not  France,  but  France  has  lost  her  voice, 
This  man  is  France,  the  man  they  call  her  choice. 

By  tricks  and  spying, 

By  craft  and  lying, 
And  murder  was  her  freedom  overthrown. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

"Vive  PEmpereur"  may  follow  by  and  by: 
;<  God  save  the  Queen  "  is  here  a  truer  cry- 

God  save  the  Nation, 

The  toleration, 
And  the  free  speech  that  makes  a  Briton  known. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Rome's  dearest  daughter  now  is  captive  France, 
The  Jesuit  laughs,  and  reckoning  on  his  chance, 
Would  unrelenting- 
Kill  all  dissenting, 
Till  we  were  left  to  fight  for  truth  alone. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Call  home  your  ships  across  Biscayan  tides, 
To  blow  the  battle  from  their  oaken  sides,, 

Why  waste  they  yonder 

Their  idle  thunder? 
Why  stay  they  there  to  guard  a  foreign  throne? 

Seamen,  guard  your  own. 

We  were  the  best  of  marksmen  long  ago, 
We  won  old  battles  with  our  strength,  the  bow- 
Now  practise,  yeoman, 
Like  those  bowmen, 
Ti)l  your  balls  fly  as  their  shafts  have  flown 
Yeomen,  guard  your  own. 

His  soldier-ridden  Highness  might  incline 
To  take  Sardinia, Belgium,  or  the  Rhine: 

Shall  we  stand  idle, 

Nor  seek  to  bridle 
His  rude  aggressions,  till  we  stand  alone? 

Make  their  cause  your  own. 

Should  he  land  here,  and  for  one  hour  prevail, 
There  must  no  man  go  back  to  ber7*  the  tale: 


HANDS  ALL  ROUND. 


803 


No  man  to  bear  it — 
Swear  it!  we  swear  it ! 
Although  we  fight  the  banded  world  alone 
We  swear  to  guard  our  own. 


•**$=:*£:£*&$*♦- 


HANDS  ALL  ROUND* 


IRST  drink  a  health,  this  solemn  night, 
A  health  to  England,  every  guest; 

That  man's  tin-  betf  COSmop 

Who  loves  his  native  country  ; 
May  Freedom's  oak  for  ever  live 

With  stronger  lift  from  day  to  day; 
That  man's  the  best  Conservative 

Who  lops  the  moulder'd  branch  away. 
Hands  all  round! 
God  the  tyrant's  hope  confound! 
To  this  great  cause  of  Freedom  drink,  my  frieu 
And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and  round 

A  health  to  Europe's  honest  men! 

Heaven  guard  them  from  her  t\  rant's 
From  wrong* d  Poerio's  noisome  den, 

From  iron  limbs  and  tortured  nails! 
We  curse  the  crimes  of  southern  ki: 

The  Russian  whips  and  Austrian  rods — 
We  likewise  have  our  evil  things; 

Too  much  we  make  our  Ledgers,  (*< 
Yet  hands  all  round! 

God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound! 
To  Europe's  better  health  we  drink,  my  friends, 

And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and  round t 


What  health  to  France,  if  France  tx 

Whom  martial  progress  only  charms? 
Yet  tell  her — better  to  be  free 


•From  Tht  Examiner,  185J,  sijpicd  ••  Merlin." 


804  HANDS  ALL  ROUND. 

Than  vanquish  all  the  world  in  arms. 
Her  frantic  city's  flashing  heats 

But  fire,  to  blast,  the  hopes  of  men. 
Why  change  the  titles  of  your  streets? 

You  fools,  you'll  want  them  all  again. 
Hands  all  round! 

God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound! 
To  France,  the  wiser  France,  we  drink,  my  friends, 

And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and  round. 

Gigantic  daughter  of  the  West, 

We  drink  to  thee  across  the  flood, 
We  know  thee,  and  we  love  thee  best, 

For  art  thou  not  of  British  blood? 
Should  war's  mad  blast  again  be  blown, 

Permit  not  thou  the  tyrant  powers 
To  fight  thy  mother  here  alone, 

But  let  thy  broadsides  roar  with  ours. 
Hands  all  round! 

God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound! 
To  our  dear  kinsmen  of  the  West,  my  friends, 

And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and  round. 

O  rise,  our  strong  Atlantic  sons, 

When  war  against  our  freedom  springs! 
O  speak  to  Europe  through  your  guns! 

They  can  be  understood  by  kings. 
You  must  not  mix  our  Queen  with  those 

That  wish  to  keep  their  people  fools ; 
Our  freedom's  foemen  are  her  foes, 

She  comprehends  the  race  she  rules. 
Hands  all  round! 

God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound ! 
To  our  dear  kinsmen  in  the  West,  my  friends, 

And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and  round. 


THE    WAR. 


805 


THE    WAR.* 


HERE  is  a  sound  of  thunder  afar, 

Storm  in  the  South  that  darkens  the  day, 
Storm  of  battle  and  thunder  of  W*r. 
Well,  if  it  do  not  roll  our  way. 
Form!  form!  Riflemen  form! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm ! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form! 


Be  not  deaf  to  the  sound  that  warns, 

Be  not  gull'd  by  a  despot's  plea  ! 
Are  figs  of  thistles,  or  grapes  of  thorns? 
How  should  a  despot  set  men  free  ? 
Form!  form!  Riflemen  form! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form  i 


Let  your  Reforms  for  a  moment  go, 

Look  to  your  butts  and  take  good  aims. 
Better  a  rotten  borough  or  so, 

Than  a  rotten  fleet  or  a  city  of  flames! 
Form !  form !  Riflemen  form ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm ! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form ! 


Form,  be  ready  to  do  or  die! 

Form  in  Freedom's  name  and  the  Queen's! 
True,  that  we  have  a  faithful  ally, 

But  only  the  Devil  knows  what  he  means. 
Form!  form!  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form! 


From  the  London  Timr$,  May  o,  1859. 


bVO 


A    WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA. 


A    WELCOME   TO  ALEXANDRA. 


March  7,  1863. 


rEA-KINGS'  daughter  from  over  the  sea, 

Alexandra; 

Saxon  and  Norman  and  Dane  are  we, 

But  all  of  us  Danes  in  our  welcome  of  thee, 

Alexandra! 

Welcome  her,  thunders  of  fort  and  of  fleet! 

Welcome  her,  thundering  cheer  of  the  street -; 
Welcome  her,  all  things  youthful  and  sweet, 
Scatter  the  blossom  under  her  feet! 
Break,  happy  land,  into  earlier  flowers! 
Make  music,  O  bird,  in  the  new-budded  bowers - 
Blazon  your  mottoes  of  blessing  and  prayer! 
Welcome  her,  welcome  her,  all  that  is  ours! 
Warble,  O  bugle,  and  trumpet,  blare! 
Flags,  flutter  out  upon  turrets  and  towers, 
Flames,  on  the  windy  headland  flare! 
Utter  your  jubilee,  steeple  and  spire! 
Clash,  ye  bells,  in  the  merry  March  air! 
Flash,  ye  cities,  in  rivers  of  fire! 
Rush  to  the  roof,  sudden  rocket,  and  highei 
Melt  into  the  stars  for  the  land's  desire! 
Roll  and  rejoice,  jubilant  voice, 
Roll  as  a  ground-swell  dash'd  on  the  strand, 


Break,  happy  land,  into  earlier  flowers  I 

Make  music,  O  bird,  in  the  new-budded  bowers.** 


ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA  IN  17S2. 


ox/7 


Roar  as  the  sea  when  he  welcomes  the  land, 

And  welcome  her,  welcome  the  land's  desire, 

The  sea-kings'  daughter  M  happy  as  fair, 

Blissful  bride  of  1  blissful  heir, 

Bride  of  the  heir  of  the  kings  of  the  sea — 

O  joy  to  the  people,  and  joy  to  the  throne, 

Comic  to  us,  love  us,  and  make  us  your  own: 

For  Saxon  or  Dane  or  Norman  we, 

Teuton  or  Celt,  or  whatever  we  be, 

We  are  each  all  Dane  in  our  welcome  of  thee, 

Alexandra! 


onmwmt 


ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA  IN  1782. 


THOU,  that  sendest  out  the  man 

To  rule  by  land  and  - 
Strong  mother  of  a  Lion-line, 
Be  proud  of  those  strong  sons  of  Thine 

Who  wrench'd  their  rights  from  thee! 


What  wonder,  if  in  noble  heat 

Those  men  thine  arms  withstood, 
Be  taught  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught, 
And  in  thy  spirit  with  thee  fought — 
Who  sprang  from  English  blood! 

But  thou  rejoice  with  liberal  joy, 

Lift  up  thy  rocky  face, 
And  shatter,  when  the  storms  are  biack, 
In  many  a  streaming  torrent  back, 

The  seas  that  shock  thy  base! 


Whatever  harmonies  of  law 

The  growing  world  assume, 
Thy  work  is  thine — the  single  note 
From  that  deep  chord  which  Hampden  smote 

Will  vibrate  to  the  doom. 


i08 


ON  A   SPITEFUL  LETTER. 


ON  A  SPITEFUL  LETTER.* 


ERE,  it  is  here — The  close  of  the  year, 
And  with  it  a  spiteful  letter. 
My  fame  in  song  has  done  him  much  wrong, 
For  himself  has  done  much  better. 

tc^  O  foolish  bard,  is  your  lot  so  hard, 
If  men  neglect  your  pages? 
I  think  not  much  of  yours  or  of  mine: 
I  hear  the  roll  of  the  ages. 

This  fallen  leaf,  isn't  fame  as  brief? 

My  rhymes  may  have  been  the  stronger. 
Yet  hate  me  not,  but  abide  your  lot; 

I  last  but  a  moment  longer. 

O  faded  leaf,  isn't  fame  as  brief? 

What  room  is  here  for  a  hater r 
Yet  the  yellow  leaf  hates  the  greener  leaf, 

For  it  hangs  one  moment  later. 

Greater  than. I — isn't  that  your  cry? 

And  I  shall  live  to  see  it. 
Well,  if  it  be  so,  so  it  is,  you  know; 

And  if  it  be  so — so  be  it. 

O  summer  leaf,  isn't  life  as  brief  ? 

But  this  is  the  time  of  hollies. 
And  my  heart,  my  heart  is  an  evergreen: 

And  I  hate  the  spites  and  the  follies. 


►f>Qra  Once  a    Week,  January  |,  186S. 


A  DEDICATION. 


A  DEDICATION* 


EAR,  near  and  true — no  truer  Time  himself 
Can  prove  you,  tho*  he  make  you  everm 
Dearer  and  nearer,  as   the  rapid  of  life 
Shoots  to  the  fall — takr  this,  and  pray  that    lie 
Who  wrote  it,  honoring  your  sweet  faith  in  mm, 
M;i\  trust  himself;  and  spite  of  praise  and  seorn, 
As  one  who  feels  the  immeasurable  world, 
Attain  the-  wise  indifference  of  tin-  wise; 

And  alter  Autumn  past      if  lift  to  pass 

His  autumn  into  seem fag-leafless  days 

Draw  toward  the  Ion-   frost  and  longest   u;_Jlt, 
Wearing  his  wisdom  tightly,  like  the  fruit 
Which  in  our  winter  woodland  looks  n  flower*  * 


"  •>■"»•>»»  *»#C»  *n«— C*^» 


I86s—/866.f 


STOOD  on  a  tower  in  the  we* 
And  New  Year  and  Old  Year  met, 

And  winds  wire  roaring  and  blowil 

And  I  said,  "O  years  that  meet  in  tears, 
Have  ye  aught  that  is  worth  the  knowi 
Science  enough  and  exploring, 
Wanderers  coming  and  going 

Matter  enough  for  deploring, 

Hut  aught  that  is  worth  the  knowing?" 
it  my  feet  wire  flowing, 

Waves  on  the  shingle  pouring, 
Old  Year  roaring  and  blowing, 
Aa*i  New  Year  blowing  and  roaring. 


•  The  fruit  of  the  Spindle-tree  (Euomymau  Emrofaau.)    f  From  Good  Words,  March.  1866. 


tfiO 


IN  THE    VALLET  OF  CAUTERETZ. 


IN  THE    VALLET  OF  CAUTERETZ. 


If  LL  along  the  valley,  stream  that  flashest  white, 
[Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepening  of  the  night, 
All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters  flow, 
I  walk'd  with  one  I  loved  two  and  thirty  years  ago. 
All  along  the  valley  while  I  walk'd  to-day, 
The  two  and  thirty  years  were  a  mist  that  rolls  away; 
For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy  rocky  bed, 
Thy  living  voice  to  me  was  as  the  voice  of  the  dead, 
And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and  cave  and  tree, 
The  voice  of  the  dead  was  as  a  living  voice  to  me. 


SONG. 


ADY,  let  the  rolling  drums 

Beat  to  battle  where  thy  warrior  stands: 
Now  thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands. 


Lady,  let  the  trumpets  blow, 
Clasp  thy  little  babes  about  thy  knee: 
Now  their  warrior  father  meets  the  foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 


SONG. 


OME  they  brought  him  slain  with  spears. 

They  brought  him  home  at  even-fall : 
All  alone  she  sits  and  hears 
Echoes  in  his  empty  hall, 

Sounding  on  the  morrow. 


The  sun  peep'd  in  from  open  field, 
The  boy  began  to  leap  and  prance, 
Rode  upon  his  father's  lance, 

Beat  upon  his  father's  shield — 

"Q  hush,  my  joy,  my  sorrow. 


BOAD1CEA. 


811 


EXPERIMENTS. 


BOADICEA. 


HILE  about  the  shore  of  Mona  those  Neronian  ley 
aries 
Burnt  and  broke  the  grove  and  altar  of  the  Druid  and 

Druideat, 
Far  in  the    East  Boadicea,  standing   loftily  charioted, 
Mad  and  maddening  all  that  heard  her  in  her  fierce 
volubility, 
Girt  by  half  the  tribes  of  Britain,  near  the  colony  Camulodune, 
YelPd  and  shriek'd  between  her  daughters  o'er  a  wild  confederacy. 

"  They  that  scorn  the  tribes  and  call  us  Britain's  barbarous   popu- 
laces, 

Did  they  hear  me,  would  they  listen,  did  they  pity  me  supplicating? 

Shall  I  heed  them  in  their  anguish?  shall  I  brook  to  be  supplier 

Hearlcenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant! 

Must  their  ever-ravening  eagle's  beak  and  talons  annihilate  us? 
Tear  the  noble  heart  of  Britain,  leave  it  gorily  quivering? 
Bark  an  answer,  Britain's  raven!  bark  and  blacken  innumerable, 
Blacken  round  the  Roman  carrion,  make  the  carcass  a  skeleton, 
Kite  and  kestrel,  wolf  and  wolf  kin,  from  the  wilderness,  wallow  in  it, 
Till  the  face  of  Bel  be  brighten'd,  Taranis  be  propitiated. 
Lo  their  colony  half-defended!  lo  their  colony,  Camulodune! 
There  the  horde  of  Roman  robbers  mock  at  a  barbarous  adversary. 
There  a  hive  of  Roman  liars  worship  a  gluttonous  emperor-idiot. 
Such  is  Rome,  and  this  her  deity;  hear  it,  Spirit  of  Cassivelaun! 


"  Hear  it,  Gods!  the  Gods  have  heard  it,  O  lcenian,  O  Coritanian! 
Doubt  not  ye  the  Gods  have  answer'd,  Catieuchlanian,  Trinobant. 
These  have  told  us  all  their  anger  in  miraculous  utterances, 
Thunder,  a  flying  fire  in  heaven,  a  murmur  heard  aerially, 
Phantom  sound  of  blows  descending,  moan  of  an  enemy  massacred, 
Phantom  wail  of  women  and  children,  multitudinous  ago 
Bloodily  flowed  the  Tamesa  rolling  phantom  bodies  of  horses  and  meni 
Then  a  phantom  colony  smoulder'd  on  the  refluent  estuary; 
Lastly  yonder  yester-even,  suddenly  giddily  tottering — 


ULh 


BOADICEA. 


There  was  one  who  watch'd  and  told  me — down  their  statue  of  Victory 

fell. 
Lo  their  precious  Roman  bantling,  lo  the  colony  Camulodune, 
Shall  we  teach  it  a  Roman  lesson?  shall  we  care  to  be  pitiful? 
Shall  we  deal  with  it  as  an  infant?  shall  we  dandle  it  amorously? 

"Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant! 


While  I  roved  about  the  forest,  long  and  bitterly  meditating, 

There  I  heard  them  in  the  darkness,  at  the  mystical  ceremony, 

Loosely  robed  in  flying  raiment,  sang  the  terrible  prophetesses. 

1  Fear  not,  isle  of  blowing  woodland,  isle  of  silvery  parapets! 

Tho'  the  Roman  eagle  shadow  thee,  tho'   the   gathering   enemy   narrow 

thee, 
Thou  shalt  wax  and  he  shall  dwindle,  thou  shalt  be  the  mighty   one   yet! 
Thine  the  liberty,  thine  the  glory,  thine  the  deeds  to  be  celebrated, 
Thine  the  myriad-rolling  ocean,  light  and  shadow  illimitable. 


BOADICEA. 


Thine  the  lands  of  lasting  summer,  many -blossoming  Paradises, 
Thine  the  North  and  thine  the  South,  and  thine  the  battle-thunder  of  God.' 
So  they  chanted:   how  shall  Britain  light  upon  auguries  happi 
So  they  chanted  in  the  darkness,  and  there  cometh  a  victory  now. 

*«  Hear  [cenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobantl 
Me  the  wife  of  rich  Prasutagus,  me  the  lover  of  liU 
hie  they  seized  ami  me  they  tortured,  me  they  lath'd  and  humiliated, 
Me  the  spoil  of  ribald  Veteran*,  mine  of  ruffian  violator!  1 
Sec  they  --it,  they  hide  their  fao  ible  in  ignominy  1 

Wherefore  in  me  burns  an  anger,  not  by  blood  to  be  satiated. 
Lo  the  palaces  and  ihe  temple,  lo  the  colony  Camulodune! 
There  they  ruled,  ami  thence  they  wasted  all  the  flourishing  territory, 
Thither  at  their  will  they  haled  the  yellow-ringleted  Britoness — 
Bloodily,  bloodily  fall  the  battle-axe,  unexhausted,  inexorable. 
Shout  Ecenian,  Catieuchlanian,  shout  Coritanian.  Trinohant, 
Till  the  victim  hear  within  and  yearn  to  hurry  precipitously 
Like  the  leaf  in  a  roaring  whirlwind, like  the  smoke  in  a  hurricane  whirl'd, 
Lo  the  colony,  there  they  rioted  in  the  city  of  Cunobeline? 
There  they  drank  in  cups  of  emerald,  there  at  tables  of  ebony  lay, 
Rolling  on  their  purple  couches  in  their  tender  effeminacy. 
There    they    d  vclt    and    there    thev    rioted;   there      there—  they    dwell   no 

more. 
Burst  the  gates,  and  hum  the  palaces,  break  the  works  of  the  statu 

Take  the  hoary  Roman  head  and  shatter  it,  hold  it  ahoininablc, 
Cut  the  Roman  boy  to  pieces  in  hifl  lust  and    voluptuOUSO 
Lash  the  maiden  into  swooning,  me  they  lashM  and  humiliated. 
Chop  the  breasts  from  off  the  mother,  dash  the  brains  of  the  little  one  Out, 
Up  my  Britons,  on  my  chariot,  on  my  chai  no  under  us." 

So  the  Queen  Boadicea,  standing  loftily  charioted, 
Brandishing  in  her  hand  a  dart  and  rolling  glances   lioness-like, 
Yelled  and  shrieked  between  her  daughters  in  her  t  ubilitj, 

Till  her  people  all  around  the  royal  chariot 

Madly  dashed  the  darts  together,  writhing  barbarous  lineament-. 
Made  the  noise  of  frosty  woodlands,  when  thev  shiver  in  Jam; 

Roar'd  as  when  the  rolling  breakers  boom  and  blanch  on  the  pi 

YellM  as  when  the  winds  of  winter  tear  an  oak  OH  a  promon 
So  the  silent  colony  hearing  her  tumultuous  ad\< 

h  the  darts  and  on  the  buckler  beat  with  rapid  unanil  ind, 

Thought  on  all  her  evil  tyrannies,  all  her  pitiless  ava: 
Till  she  felt  the  heart  within  her  fall  and  Mutter  tremulou 
Then  her  pulses  at  the  clamoring  of  her  enemy  fainted  away. 
Out  of  evil  evil  nourishes,  out  of  tyranny  tyranny  buds. 


b!4 


W  QUAJSTTITT. 


Ran  the  land  with  Roman  slaughter,  multitudinous  agonies. 
Perish'd  many  a  maid  and  matron,  many  a  valorous  legionary. 
Fell  the  colony,  city  and  citadel,  London,  Verulam,  Camulodune. 


IN  QUANTITY. 


ON    TRANSLATIONS   OF    HOMER. 


Hexameters  and  Pentameters. 


p"HESE  lame  hexameters  the  strong-wing'd  music  of  Homer! 
No — but  a  most  burlesque  barbarous  experiment. 
When  was  a  harsher  sound  ever  heard,  ye  Muses  of  England? 

When  did  a  frog  coarser  croak  upon  our  Helicon  ? 
Hexameters  no  worse  than  daring  Germany  gave  us, 
Barbarous  experiment,  babarrous  hexameters. 


MILTON. 


Alcaics. 

\  MIGHTY-MOUTH'D  inventor  of  harmonies, 
O  skilPd  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 
God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England. 
Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages; 
Whose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 
Starred  from  Jehovah's  gorgeous  armories, 
Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 
Rings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  onset — 
Me  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness, 
The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  murmuring, 
And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 
Charm,  as  a  wanderer  out  in  ocean, 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of  India 
Streams  o'er  a  rich  ambrosial  ocean  isle, 
And  crimson-hued  the  stately  palm  woods 
Whisper  in  odorous  heights  of  even. 


JN  QUANTITT 


84- 


Hendecasyllabics. 


YOU  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers, 
Irresponsible,  indolent  reviewers, 
Look,  I  come  to  the  test,  a  tiny  poem 
All  composed  in  ;»  metre  of  Catullus, 
All  in  quantity,  careful  of  my  motion, 
Like  the  skater  on  ice  that  hardly  bears  hinx, 


Lest  I  fall  unawares  before  the  people, 

Waking  laughter  in  indolent  reviewers. 

Should  I  flounder  awhile  without  a  tumble 

Thro'  this  metrification  of  Catullus, 

They  should  speak  to  me  not  without  a  weicome. 

All  that  chorus  of  indolent  review* 

Hard,  hard,  hard  is  it,  only  not  to  tumble, 

So  fantastical  is  the  dainty  met 

Wherefore  slight  me  not  wholly,  nor  believe  me 

Too  presumptuous,  indolent  reviewers. 

O  blatant  Magazines,  regard  me  rather — 

Since  I  blush  to  belaud  myself  a  moment— 

As  some  rare  little  rose,  a  piece  or  inmost 

Horticultural  art,  or  half  coquette-like 

Maiden,  not  to  be  greeted  unbenignly. 


810 


TRANSLATION   OF  THE  ILIAD  IN  BLANK   VERSE. 


SPECIMEN  OF  A  TRANSLATION  OF  THE  ILIAD  IN  BLANK  VERSE. 


O  Hector  said,  and  sea-like  roar'd  his  host; 
Then  loosed  their  sweating  horses  from  the  yoke 
And  each  beside  his  chariot  bound  his  own; 
And  oxen  from  the  city,  and  goodly  sheep 
In  haste  they  drove,  and  honey-hearted  wine 
And  bread  from  out  the  houses  brought,  and  heap'd 
Their  firewood,  and  the  winds  from  off  the  plain 
Roll'd  the  rich  vapor  far  into  the  heaven. 
And  these  all  night  upon  the  bridge*  of  war 
Sat  glorying;  many  a  fire  before  them  blazed: 


As  when  in  heaven  the  stars  about  the  moon 
Look  beautiful,  when  all  the  winds  are  laid, 
And  every  height  comes  out,  and  jutting  peak 
And  valley,  and  the  immeasurable  heavens 


*  Or,  ridge. 


TRANSLATION  OF  THE  ILIAD  IN  BLANK  VERSE. 


817 


Break  open  to  their  highest,  and  all  the  stars 
Shine,  and  the  Shepherd  gladdens  in  his  heart: 
So  many  a  fire  between  the  ships  and  stream 
Of  Xanthus  blazed  before  the  towers  of  Troy, 
A  thousand  on  the  plain;  and  close  by  each 
Sat  fifty  in  the  blaze  of  burning  fire; 
And  champing  golden  grain,  the  horses  stood 
Hard  by  their  chariots,  waiting  for  the  dawn.f 

Iliad,  VIII,  542-561, 


t  Or  more  literally,— 

And  eating  hoary  grain  and  polae  the  steeds 
Stood  by  their  car»,  waiting  the  throned  mom. 


^OKTHB      % 


:<$  i 


-«^7 


SOI}GS*  S 


THE    WINDOW;    OR  THE  SONGS  OF  THE    WRENS. 


821 


THE   WINDOW;  OR  THE  SONGS  OF  THE   WEENS. 


Wards  written  J  or  Music. 

The  Music  by  Arthur  Sullivan. 

Four  years  ago  Mr.  Sullivan  requested  me  to  write  a  little  song-cycle,  German  fashion 
for  him  to  exercise  his  art  upon.  He  had  been  very  successful  in  setting  such  old  songs  M 
"  Orpheus  with  his  Lute,"  and  I  drest  up  for  him,  partly  in  the  old  style,  a  puppet  who>e 
almost  only  merit  is,  perhaps,  that  it  can  dance  to  Mr.  Sullivan's  instrument  I  am  sort 
that  my  four-year-old  puppet  should  have  to  dance  at  all  in  the  dark  shadow  of  these  day  , 
but  the  music  is  now  completed,  and  I  am  bound  by  my  promise. — [A.  Trnnyson.] 

December,  1870. 

ON  THE  HILL. 


E  lights  and  shadows  fly! 
Yonder  it  brightens  and  darkens  down  on  the 
plain. 
A  jewel,  a  jewel  dear  to  a  lover's  eye! 
O  is  it  the  brook,  or  a  pool ;  or  her  window 
pane, 
When  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morning? 


Clouds  that  are  racing  above, 
And  winds  and   lights  and  shadows  that  cannot  be 
still, 
All  running  on  one  way  to  the  home  of  my  love, 
You  are  all  running  on,  and  I  stand  on  the  slope  of 
the  hill, 
And  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morning! 

Follow,  follow  the  chase! 
And  my  thoughts  are  as  quick  and  as  quick,  ever  on,  on,  on. 

O  lights,  are  you  flying  over  her  sweet  little  face? 
And  my  heart  is  there  before  you  are  come  and  gone, 

When  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morning! 


822 


THE   WINDOW;    OR  THE  SONGS  OF  THE   WRENS. 


Follow  them  down  the  slope! 
And  I  follow  them  down  to  the  window  pane  of  my  dear, 

And  it  brightens  and  darkens  and  brightens  like  my  hope, 
And  it  darkens  and  brightens  and  darkens  like  my  fear, 

And  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morning. 


ii. 


AT  THE  WINDOW. 


Vine,  vine  and  eglantine, 
Clasp  her  window,  trail  and  twine! 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis, 
Trail  and  twine  and  clasp  and  kiss 
Kiss,  kiss;  and  make  her  a  bower 
All  of  flowers,  and  drop  me  a  flower, 
Drop  me  a  flower. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine, 

Cannot  a  flower,  a  flower,  be  mine? 


Rose,  rose  and  clematis, 
Drop  me  a  flower,  a  flower,  to  kiss, 
Kiss,  kiss — And  out  of  her  bower 
All  of  flowers,  a  flower,  a  flower, 
Dropt,  a  flower. 


in. 


GONE! 

Gone! 

Gone  till  the  end  of  the  year, 

Gone,  and  the  light  gone  with  her  and  left  me  in  shadow  here! 


THE   WINDOW;    OR  THE  SONGS  OF  THE  WRENS.  823 

Gone — flitted  away, 
Taken  the  stars  from  the  night  and  the  sun  from  the  day! 
Gone,  and  a  cloud  in  my  heart,  and  a  storm  in  the  air! 
Flown  to  the  east  or  the  west,  flitted  I  know  not  where! 
Down  in  the  south  is  a  flash  and  a  groan:  she  is  there!  she  is 
there! 


IV. 


WINTER. 

The  frost  is  here, 

And  fuel  is  dear, 

And  woods  are  sear. 

And  fires  burn  clear, 

And  frost  is  here 

And  has  bitten  the  heel  of  the  going  year. 

Bite,  frost,  bite! 

You  roll  up  away  from  the  light 

The  blue  wood-louse  and  the  plump  dormouse, 

And  the  bees  are  stilPd,  and  the  flies  are  kill'd, 

And  you  bite  far  into  the  heart  of  the  house, 

But  not  into  mine. 

Bite,  frost,  bite! 

The  woods  are  all  the  searer, 

The  fuel  is  all  the  dearer, 

The  fires  are  all  the  clearer, 

My  spring  is  all  the  nearer, 

You  have  bitten  into  the  heart  of  the  earth, 

But  not  into  mine. 


v. 


SPRING. 


Birds'  love  and  birds'  song 
Flying  here  and  there, 

Birds'  song  and  birds'  love, 
And  you  with  gold  for  hair! 

Birds'  song  and  birds'  love, 


824 


THE  WINDOW;   OR  THE  SONGS  OF  THE   WRENS. 


Passing  with  the  weather, 
Men's  song  and  men's  love, 
To  love  once  and  forever. 

Men's  love  and  birds'  love, 

And  women's  lore  and  men's! 

And  you  my  wren  with  a  crown  of  gold, 
You  my  Queen  of  the  wrens! 

You  the  Queen  of  the  wrens — 


We'll  be  birds  of  a  feather, 
I'll  be  King  of  the  Queen  of  the  wrens, 
And  all  in  a  nest  together. 


VI. 


THE  LETTER. 


Where  is  another  sweet  as  my  sweet, 
Fine  of  the  fine,  and  shy  of  the  shy? 

Fine  little  hands,  fine  little  feet — 
Dewy  blue  eye. 

Shall  I  write  to  her?  shall  I  go? 
Ask  her  to  marry  me  by  and  by? 

Somebody  said  that  she'd  say  no; 
Somebody  knows  that  she'll  say  ay  I 


Ay  or  no,  if  ask'd  to  her  face  ? 

Ay  or  no,  from  shy  of  the  shy? 
Go,  little  letter,  apace,  apace, 

Fly! 
Fly  to  the  light  in  the  valley  below — 

Tell  my  wish  to  her  dewy  blue  eye: 


"  Be  merry,  all  birds,  to-day, 

Be  merry  on  earth  as  you  never 
were  merry  before/* 


THE    WINDOW;    OR   THE  SONGS  OF  THE    WRENS. 

Somebody  said  that  she'd  say  no; 
Somebody  knows  that  she'll  say  ay! 


VII. 


NO  ANSWER. 

The  mist  and  the  rain,  the  mist  and  the  rain! 

Is  it  ay  or  DO?   M  it  ay  or  no? 
And  never  a  glimpse  of  her  window  pane! 

And  I  may  die  but  the  grass  will  grow, 
And  the  grass  will  grow  when  I  am  gone, 
And  the  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  will  go  on. 

Ay  is  the  song  of  the  wedded  spheres, 

No  is  trouble  and  cloud  and  storm, 
Ay  is  life  for  a  hundred  years, 

No  will  push  me  down  to  the  worm, 
And  when  I  am  there  and  dead  and  gone, 
The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  will  go  on. 

The  wind  and  the  wet,  the  wind  and  the  wet! 

Wet  west  wind,  how  you  blow,  you  blow! 
And  never  a  line  from  my  lady  yet! 

Is  it  ay  or  no?  is  it  ay  or  no? 
Blow,  then,  blow,  and  when  I  am  gone, 
The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  may  go  on. 


VIII. 

NO  ANSWER. 

Winds  are  loud  and  you  are  dumb, 
Take  my  love,  for  love  will  come. 

Love  will  come  but  once  ft  Hi 
Winds  are  loud  and  winds  will  pass! 
Spring  is  here  with  leaf  and  grass: 

Take  my  love  and  be  my  wife. 
After-loves  of  maids  and  men 
Are  but  dainties  drest  again : 
Love  me  now,  you  '11  love  me  then : 

Love  can  love  but  once  a  life. 


826 


THE    WINDOW;    OR   THE  SONGS  OF  THE   WRENS. 


IX. 


THE  ANSWER. 


Two  little  hands  that  meet, 
Claspt  on  her  seal,  my  sweet! 
Must  I  take  you  and  break  you, 
Two  little  hands  that  meet? 
I  must  take  you,  and  break  you, 
And  loving  hands  must  part — 
Take,  take — break,  break,  break — 
Break — you  may  break  my  heart. 
Faint  heart  never  won — 
Break,  break,  and  all  's  done. 


AY. 


Be  merry,  ail  birds,  to-day, 

Be  merry  on  earth  as  you  never  were  merry  before, 


Be  merry  in  heaven,  O  larks,  and  far  away, 

And  merry  forever  and  ever,  and  one  day  more. 
Why? 
For  it's  easy  to  find  a  rhyme. 


Look,  look,  how  he  flits, 

The  fire-crown'd  king  of  the  wrens,  from  out  of  the  pine  I 
Look  how  they  tumble  the  blossom,  the  mad  little  tits! 


THE   WINDOW;    OR   THE  SONGS  OF  THE    WRENS.  827 

uCuck-oo!  Cuck-oo!"  was  ever  May  so  fine? 
Why? 
For  it's  easy  to  find  a  rhyme. 

O  merry  the  linnet  and  dove, 

And  swallow  and  sparrow  and  throstle,  and  have  your  desire! 
O  merry  my  heart,  you  have  gotten  the  wings  of  love, 
And  flit  like  the  king  of  the  wrens  with  a  crown  of  fire. 
Why? 
For  it's  ay  ay  ay,  ay  ay. 


XI. 


WHEN? 

Sun  comes,  moon  comes, 

Time  slips  away. 
Sun  sets,  moon  sets, 

Love,  fix  a  day. 

"  A  year  hence,  a  year  hence," 
"  We  shall  both  be  gray." 

"  A  month  hence,  a  month  hence/ 
"  Far,  far  away." 

"  A  week  hence,  a  week  hence," 

"  Ah,  the  long  delay." 
«  Wait  a  little,  wait  a  little," 

«  You  shall  fix  a  day." 

«*  To-morrow,  love,  to-morrow. 
And  that's  an  age  away." 

Blaze  upon  her  window,  sun, 
And  honor  all  the  day. 

XII. 

MARRIAGE  MORNING. 

Light,  so  low  upon  earth, 

You  send  a  flash  to  the  sun, 
Here  is  the  golden  close  of  love. 


828 


THE    WINDOW;    OR   THE  SONGS   OF   THE    WRENS. 


All  my  wooing  is  done. 
O  the  woods  and  the  meadows, 

Woods  where  we  hid  from  the  wet, 
Stiles  where  we  stay'd  to  be  kind, 

Meadows  in  which  we  met! 
Light,  so  low  in  the  vale, 

You  flash  and  lighten  afar, 
For  this  is  the  golden  morning  of  love, 

And  you  are  his  morning  star. 
Flash,  I  am  coming,  I  come, 

By  meadow  and  stile  and  wood, 
O  lighten  into  my  eyes  and  my  heart, 

Into  my  heart  and  my  blood! 
Heart,  are  you  great  enough 

For  a  love  that  never  tires? 
O  heart,  are  you  great  enough  for  love? 

I  have  heard  of  thorns  and  briers. 
Over  the  thorns  and  briers, 

Over  the  meadows  and  stiles, 
Over  the  world  to  the  end  of  it 

Flash  for  a  million  miles. 


DESPAIR. 


A  DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE. 

A  man  and  his  wife  having  lost  faith  in  a  God,  and  hope  of  a  life  to  come,  and  being 
atterly  miserable  in  this,  resolve  to  end  themselves  by  drowning.  The  woman  is  drowned^ 
but  the  man  is  rescued  by  a  minister  of  the  sect  he  had  abandoned. 


j-JS  it  you  that  preach'd  in  the  chapel  there  looking  over 
^T  *  the  sand 

Follow'd  us  too,  that  night,  and  doggM   us,  And 

me  to  land? 
What  did  I  feel  that   night?     You    arc   curious.      How 

Does  it  matter  so  much  what  I  felt? 


should  I  tell? 


You  rescued  me — 
yet — was  it  well 
That  you  came  nnwish'd  for,  uncalPd,  between  me  and  the  deep 

and  my  doom 
Three  days  since,  three  more  dark  days  of  the  Godlest  gloom 
Of  a  life  without  sun,  without  health,  without  hope,  without  any 

*%&**.  delight 

S*^  In  anything  here  upon  earth?  but  ah  God,  that  night,  thl  t  nigh 

When  the  rolling  eyes  of  the  light-how  liel  neck 

Of  land  running  out  into  rock—they  had  saved  many  hundreds 
from  wreck — 

Glared  on  our  way  toward  death,  I  remember  I  thought  as  w<    | 
Does  it  matter  how  many  thej  we  are  all  of  us  wreck'd  at  last— 

"Do  you  fear?"  and  there  came  thro'  the  roar  of  the  breaker  c  whisper, 

a  breath — 
«  Fear?  am  I  not  with  you?     I  am  frightened  at  life,  not  death." 


§30  DESPAIR. 

And  the  suns  of  the  limitless  Universe  sparkled  and  shone  in  the  sky, 
Flashing  with  fires  as  of  God,  but  we  knew  that  their  light  was  a  lie — 
Bright  as  with  deathless  hope — but,  however  they  sparkled  and  shone, 
The  dark  little  worlds  running  round  them  were  worlds  of  woe  like  our  own — 
No  soul  in  the  heaven  above,  no  soul  on  the  earth  below, 
A  fiery  scroll  written  over  with  lamentation  and  woe. 

-  • 

See,  we  were  nursed  in  the  dark  night-fold  of  your  fatalist  creed, 

And  we  turn'd  to  the  growing  dawn,  we  had  hoped  for  a  dawn  indeed, 

When  the  light  of  a  Sun  that  was  coming  would   scatter  the   ghosts  of  the 

Past, 
And  the  cramping  creeds  that  had  madden'd  the  peoples  would  vanish  at  last 
And  we  broke  away  from  the  Christ,  our  human  brother  and  friend, 
For  He  spoke,  or  it  seem'd  that  He  spoke,  of  a  Hell  without  help,  without  end 

Hoped  for  a  dawn  and  it  came,  but  the  promise  had  faded  away, 

We  had  past  from  a  cheerless  night  to  the  glare  of  a  drearier  day 

He  is  only  a  cloud  and  a  smoke  who  was  once  a  pillar  of  fire, 

The  guess  of  a  worm  in  the  dust  and  the  shadow  of  its  desire — 

Of  a  worm  as  it  writhes  in  a  world  of  the  weak  trodden  down  by  the  strong, 

Of  a  dying  worm  in  a  world,  all  massacre,  murder,  and  wrong. 

O  we  poor  orphans  of  nothing — alone  on  that  lonely  shore — 
Born  of  the  brainless  Nature  who  knew  not  that  which  she  bore; 
Trusting  no  longer  that  earthly  flower  would  be  heavenly  fruit — 
Come  from  the  brute,  poor  souls — no  souls — and  to  die  with  the  brute— 

£Tay,  but  I  am  not  claiming  your  pity:  I  know  you  of  old — 
Small  pity  for  those  that  have  ranged  from  the  narrow  warmth  of  your  fold 
Where  you  bawl'd  the  dark  side  of  your  faith  and  a  God  of  eternal  rage, 
Till  you  flung  us  back  on  ourselves,  and  the  human  heart,  and  the  Age. 

But  pity — the  Pagan  held  it  a  vice — was  in  her  and  in  me, 

Helpless,  taking  the  place  of  the  pitying  God  that  sh@uld  be! 

Pity  for  all  that  aches  in  the  grasp  of  an  idiot  power, 

And  pity  for  our  own  selves  on  an  earth  that  bore  not  a  flower; 

Pity  for  all  that  suffers  on  land  or  in  air  or  the  deep, 

And  pity  for  our  own  selves  till  we  long'd  for  eternal  sleep. 

"Lightly  step  over  the  sands!  the  waters — you  hear  them  call! 
Life  with  its  anguish,  and  horrors,  and  errors — away  with  it  all !" 
And  she  laid  her  hand  in  my  own — she  was  always  loyal  and  sweet — 
Till  the  points  of  the  foam  in  the  dusk  came  playing  about  our  feet, 


DESPAIR.  831 

There  was  a  strong  sea-current  would  sweep  us  out  to  the  main. 

"  Ah  God,"  tho'  I  felt  as  I  spoke,  I  was  taking  the  name  in  vain — 

"Ah  God,"  and  we  turned  to  each  other,  we  kissM,  we  embraced,  she  and  I 

Knowing  the  Love  we  were  used  to  believe  everlasting  would  die: 

We  had  read  their  know-nothing  books,  and  we  lean'd  to  the  darker  side — 

Ah  God,  should  we  find  Him,  perhaps,  perhaps,  if  we  died,  it   \\  l  di. 

We  never  had  found  Him  on  earth,  this  earth  is  a  fatherless  Hell — 

"Dear  Love,  for  ever  and  ever,  for  ever  and  ever  farewell," 

Never  a  cry  so  desolate,  not  since  the  world  began ! 

Never  a  kiss  so  sad,  no,  not  since  the  coming  of  man. 

But  the  blind  wave  cast  me  ashore,  and  you  saved  me,  a  valueless  life. 
Not  a  grain  of  gratitude  mine!     You  have  parted  the  man  from  the  wife. 
I  am  left  alone  on  the  land,  she  is  all  alone  in  the  sea. 
If  a  curse  meant  aught,  I  would  curse  you  for  not  having  let  me  be. 

Visions  of  youth — for  my  brain  was  drunk  with  the  water,  it  seems; 

I  had  past  into  perfect  quiet  at  length  out  of  pleasant  dreams, 

And  the  transient  trouble  of  drowning — what  was  it  when  matchM  with  the  pains 

Of  thehellish  heat  of  a  wretched  life  rushing  back  thro'  the  vein 

Why  should  I  live?  one  son  had  forged  on  his  father  and  fled, 
And  if  I  believed  in  a  God,  I  would  thank  him,  the  other  is  dead, 
And  there  was  a  baby-girl,  that  had  never  look'd  on  the  light : 
Happiest  she  of  us  all,  for  she  past  from  the  night  to  the  night. 

But  the  crime,  if  a  crime,  of  her  eldest-born,  her  glory,  her  boast, 

Struck  hard  at  the  tender  heart  of  the  mother,  and  broke  it  almost; 

Tho',  name  and  fame  dying  out  for  ever  in  endless  time, 

Does  it  matter  so  much  whether  crown'd  for  a  virtue,  or  hang'd   for  a  crime? 

And  ruinM  by  him,  by  him,  I  stood  there,  naked,  amazed 

In  a  world  of  arrogant  opulence,  fear'd  myself  turning  erased, 

And  I  would  not  be  mock'd  in  a  madhouse!  and  she,  the  delicate  wife, 

With  a  grief  that  could  only  be  cured;  if  cured,  by  the  surgeon's  knife,— 

Why  should  we  bear  with  an  hour  ot  torture,  a  moment  of  pain 

If  every  man  die  forever,  if  all  his  griefs  are  in  vain, 

And  the  homeless  planet  at  length  will  be  wheePd  thro'   the  silence  of  space, 

Motherless  evermore  of  an  ever-vanishing  race, 

When  the  worm  shall  have  writhed  its  last,  and  its  last  brother- worm  will  have 

fled 
From  the  dead  fossil  skull  that  is  left  in  the  rocks  of  an  earth  that  is  dead? 

45 


832 


DESPAIR. 


Have  I  crazed  myself  over  their  horrible  infidel  writings?     O  yes, 

For  these  are  the  new  dark  ages,  you  see,  of  the  popular  press, 

When  the  bat  comes  out  of  his  cave,  and  the  owls  are  whooping  at  noon, 

And  Doubt  is  the  lord  of  this  dunghill  and  crows  to  the  sun  and  the  moon, 

Till  the  Sun  and  the  Moon  of  our  science  are  both  of  them  turn'd  into  blood, 

And  Hope  will  have  broken  her  heart,  running  after  a  shadow  of  good ; 

For  their  knowing  and  know-nothing  books  are  scatter'd  from  hand  to  hand — 

We  have  knelt  in  your  know-all  chapel  too,  looking  over  the  sand.  • 


What!     I  should  call  on  that  Infinite  Love  that  has  served  us  so  well? 
Infinite  wickedness  rather  that  made  everlasting  Hell, 

Made  us,  foreknew  us,  foredoom'd  us,  and  does  what  he  will  with  his  own; 
Better  our  dead  brute  mother  who  never  has  heard  us  groan! 

Hell?  if  the  souls  of  men  were  immortal,  as  men  have  been  told, 

The  lecher  would  cleave  to  his  lusts,  and  the  miser  would  yearn  for  his  gold, 

And  so  there  were  Hell  for  ever!  but  were  there  a  God  as  you  say, 

His  Love  would  have  power  over  Hell  till  it  utterly  vanish'd  away. 

Ah  yet — I  have  had  some  glimmer,  at  times,  in  my  gloomiest  woe, 

Of  a  God  behind  all — after  all — the  great  God  for  aught  that  I  know ; 

But  the  God  of  Love  and  of  Hell  together — they  cannot  be  thought, 

If  there  be  such  a  God,  may  the  Great  God  curse  him  and  bring  him  to  naught! 

Blasphemy!  whose  is  the  fault?  is  it  mine?  for  why  would  you  save 

A  madman  to  vex  you  with  wretched  words,  who  is  best  in  his  grave? 

Blasphemy!  ay,  why  not,  being  damn'd  beyond  hope  of  grace? 

O  would  I  were  yonder  with  her,  and  away  from  your  faith  and  your  face! 

Blasphemy!  true!  I  have  scared  you  pale  with  my  scandalous  talk, 

But  the  blasphemv  to  my  mind  lies  all  in  the  way  that  you  walk. 

Hence!  she  is  gone!  can  I  stay?  can  I  breathe  divorced  from  the  Past? 
You  needs  must  have  good  lynx-eyes  if  I  do  not  escape  you  at  last 
Our  orthodox  coroner  doubtless  will  find  it  a  felo-de-se, 
And  the  stake  and  the  cross-road,  fool,  if  you  will,  does  it  matter  to  me  ? 


CHARGE   OF   THE  HE  A  VT  BRIGADE. 


888 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  HEAVT  BRIGADE  AT 
BALAKLA  VA. 


Hi:    charge  of  the   gallant  three  hundred,  the  Heavy 
Brigade! — 
Down  the  hill,  down  the  hill,  thousands  of  Russians, 
Thousands  of   horsemen,  drew  to  the  valley — and 

stay'd ; 
For  Scarlett  and  Scarlett's   three  hundred  were   rid- 
ing  by 
When  the  points  of  the  Russian  lances  broke  in  on  the  sky; 
And  he  callM  "  Left  wheel  into  linel"  and  they  wheePd  and 

obey'd. 
Then  he  lookM  at  the  host  that   had  halted  he  knew  not 

why, 
And  he  turn'd  half  round,  and  he  bade  his  trumpeter  sound 
To  the  charge,  and  he  rode  on  ahead,  as  he  waved  his  blade 
To  the  gallant  three  hundred  whose  glory  will  never  die — 
"  Follow,"  and  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  followed  the  Heavy 
Brigade. 


The  trumpet,  the  gallop,  the  charge,  and  the  might  of  the  fight  I — 

Down  the  hill,  slowly,  thousands  of  Russians 

Drew  to  the  valley,  and  halted  at  last  on  the  height, 

With  a  wing  push'd  out  to  the  left,  and  a  wing  to  the  right — 

But  Scarlett  was  far  on  ahead,  and  he  dash'd  up  alone 

Thro'  the  great  grey  slope  of  men, 

And  he  wheel'd  his  sabre  he  held  his  own 

Like  an  Englishman  there  and  then; 

And  the  three  that  were  nearest  him  followed  with  force, 

Wedged  themselves  in  between  horse  and  horse, 

Fought  for  their  lives  in  the  narrow  gap  they  had  made, 

iTour  amid  thousands;  and  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill 

Gallopt  the  gallant  three  hundred,  the  Heavy  Brigade* 


m. 


Fell  like  a  cannonshot, 
Burst  like  a  thunderbolt, 


884  CHARGE   OF  THE  HEAVT  BRIGADE. 

Crash'd  like  a  hurricane, 

Broke  thro'  the  mass  from  below 

Drove  thro'  the  midst  of  the  foe, 

Plunged  up  and  down,  to  and  fro, 

Rode  flashing  blow  upon  blow, 

Brave  Inniskillens  and  Greys 

Whirling  their  sabres  in  circles  of  light! 

And  some  of  us,  all  in  amaze, 

Who  were  held  for  a  while  from  the  fight, 

And  were  only  standing  at  gaze, 

When  the  dark-muffled  Russian  crowd 

Folded  its  wings  from  the  left  and  the  right, 

And  roll'd  them  around  like  a  cloud, — 

O  mad  for  the  charge  and  the  battle  were  we, 

When  our  own  good  redcoats  sank  from  sight, 

Like  drops  of  blood  in  a  dark-grey  sea, 

And  we  turned  to  each  other,  muttering,  all  dismay'd, 

Lost  are  the  gallant  three  hundred,  the  Heavy  Brigade 

IV. 

But  they  rode  like  Victors  and  Lords 

Thro'  the  forest  of  lances  and  swords 

In  the  heart  of  the  Russian  hordes; 

They  rode,  or  they  stood  at  bay — 

Struck  with  the  sword-hand  and  slew, 

Down  with  the  bridle  hand  drew 

The  foe  from  the  saddle  and  threw 

Underfoot  there  in  the  fray — 

Raged  like  a  storm  or  stood  like  a  rock 

In  the  wave  of  a  stormy  day; 

Till  suddenly  shock  upon  shock 

Stagger'd  the  mass  from  without, 

For  our  men  gallopt  up  with  a  cheer  and  a  shout, 

And  the  Russian  surged,  and  waver'd  and  reel'd 

Up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  out  of  the  field, 

Over  the  brow  and  away. 

Glory  to  each  and  to  all,  and  the  charge  that  they  made! 
Glory  to  all  the  three  hundred,  the  Heavy  Brigade! 


LOCKSLET  HALL   SIXTY   TEARS  AFTER. 


83ft 


LOCKSLET  HALL  SIXTT  YEARS  AFTER. 

^ATE,  my  grandson,  half  the  morning  have  I  paced 
^  these  sandy  tracts, 

Watched    again    the   hollow    ridges    roaring    into 
cataracts; 

Wandered  back  to  living  boyhood  while  I  heard 

the  curlew's  call; 
I    myself  so  close  on  death,  and   death   itself    in 

Locksley  Hall. 

So  your  happy  suit  was  blasted— she,  the  faultless,  the  divine, 
And  you  liken — boyish  babble — this  boy-love  of  yours  with 

mine! 

I,  myself,  have  often  babbled,  doubtless,  of  a  foolish  past 
Babble,  babble  I   Our  old  England  may  go  down  in  babble  at 
last, 

Curse  him,  curse  your  fellow  victim.     Call  him  dotard  in  your 
rage, 
Eyes  that  lured  a  doting  boyhood  well  might  fool  a  dotard's  age. 

Jilted  for  a  wealthier;  wealthier,  yet  perhaps  she  was  not  wise; 
I  remember  how  you  kissed  the  miniature  with  those  sweet  eyes. 

In  the  Hall  there  hangs  a  painting,  Amy's  arms  about  my  neck, 
Happy  children  in  a  sunbeam  sitting  on  the  ribs  of  wreck. 

In  my  life  there  was  a  picture — she  that  clasped  my  neck  had  Mown, 
I  was  left  within  the  shadow,  sitting  on  the  wreck  alone. 

Yours  has  been  a  slighter  ailment     Will  you  sicken  for  her  sake? 
You?  Not  you?  Your  modern  amourist  is  of  easier,  earthlier  make. 

Amy  loved  me,  Amy  failed  me,  Amy  was  a  timid  child ; 

But  your  Judith,  but  your  worldling — she  had  never  driven  me  wild. 

She  that  holds  the  diamond  necklace  dearer  than  the  golden  ring, 
She  that  finds  a  winter  sunset  fairer  than  a  morn  of  spring; 

She  that  in  her  heart  is  brooding  on  his  briefer  lease  of  life. 

While  she  vows  "till  death  shall  part  us,"  she,  the  would-be  widow-wife. 

She,  the  worldling  born  of  worldlings — father,  mother.     Be  content, 
Even  the  homely  farm  can  teach  us  there  is  something  in  descent. 


836  LOCKSLET  HALL  SIXTY   TEARS  AFTER. 

Yonder  in  that  chapel,  slowly  sinking  now  into  the  ground, 
Lies  the  warrior,  my  forefather,  with  his  feet  upon  the  hound. 

Crossed  for  once,  he  sailed  the  sea,  to  crush  the  Moslem  in  his  pride; 
Dead  the  warrior,  dead  his  glory,  dead  the  cause  in  which  he  died. 

Yet  how  often  I  and  Amy  in  the  mouldering  aisle  have  stood, 
Gazing  for  one  pensive  moment  on  that  founder  of  our  blood. 

There  again  I  stood  to-day,  and  where  of  old  we  knelt  in  prayer, 
Close  beneath  the  casement  crimson,  with  the  shield  of  Locksley  there; 

All  in  white  Italian  marble,  looking  still  as  if  she  smiled, 

Lies  my  Amy,  dead  in  childbirth;  dead  the  mother;  dead  the  child. 

Dead,  and  sixty  years  ago;  and  dead  her  aged  husband  now. 

I,  this  old,  white-headed  dreamer,  stooped  and  kissed  her  marble  brow. 

Gone  the  fires  of  youth,  the  follies,  furies,  curses,  passionate  tears ; 

Gone  like  fires  and  floods,  and  earthquakes  of  the  planets'  dawning  years. 

Fires  that  shook  me  once,  but  now  to  silent  ashes  fallen  away, 
Cold  upon  the  dead  volcano  sleeps  the  gleam  of  dying  day. 

Gone  the  tyrant  of  my  youth,  and  mute  below  the  chancel  stones 
All  his  "virtues" — I  forgive  them — black  in  white  above  his  bones. 

Gone,  the  comrades  of  my  bivouac,  some  in  fight  against  the  foe, 
Some  through  age  and  slow  diseases,  gone  as  all  on  earth  will  go. 

Gone,  with  whom  for  forty  years  my  life  in  golden  sequence  ran, 
She,  with  all  the  charm  of  woman;  she,  with  all  the  breadth  of  man. 

Strong  in  will  and  rich  in  wisdom ;  Edith,  loyal,  lowly,  sweet, 
Feminine  to  her  inmost  heart,  and  feminine  to  her  -tender  feet. 

Very  woman  of  very  woman ;  nurse  of  ailing  body  and  mind ; 
She  that  linked  again  the  broken  chain  that  bound  me  to  my  kind. 

Here  to-day  was  Amy  with  me  while  I  wandered  down  the  coast, 
Near  us  Edith's  holy  shadow  smiling  at  the  slighter  ghost. 

Gone  our  sailor  son,  thy  father  Leonard,  early  lost  at  sea; 
Thou  alone,  my  boy,  of  Amy's  kin  and  mine  art  left  to  me. 

Gone  thy  tender-natured  mother,  wearying  to  be  left  alone, 
Pining  for  the  stronger  heart  that  once  had  beat  beside  her  own. 

Truth — for  Truth  is  Truth — he  worshiped,  being  true  as  he  was  brave ; 
Good — for  Good  is  Good — he  followed,  yet  he  looked  beyond  the  grave ; 

Wiser  there  than  you,  that,  crowning  barren  Death  as  lord  of  all, 
Deem  this  over-tragic  drama's  closing  curtain  is  the  hall. 

Beautiful  was  death  in  him  who  saw  the  death  but  kept  the  deck, 
Saving  women  and  their  babes,  and  sinking  with  the  sinking  wreck. 


LOCKSLEr  HALL  SIXTT  rEARS  AFTER.  837 


Gone  forever — ever!  No!  For  since  our  dying  race  began, 
Ever,  ever,  and  forever,  was  the  leading  light  of  man. 

Those  that  in  barbarian  burials  killed  the  slave  and  slew  the  wife 
Felt  within  themselves  the  sacred  passion  of  the  second  life. 

Indian  warriors  dream  of  ampler  hunting  grounds  beyond  the  night; 
Even  the  black  Australian,  dying,  hopes  he  shall  return  a  white. 

Truth  for  truth,  and  good  for  good!  Be  good.   The  true,  the  pure,  the  just- 
Take  the  charm  forever  from  them,  and  they  crumble  into  dust. 

Gone  the  cry  of  forward,  forward !  lost  within  a  growing  gloom, 
Lost  or  only  heard  in  silence  from  the  silence  of  a  tomb; 

Half  the  marvels  of  my  morning  triumphs  over  time  and  space, 
Staled  by  frequence,  shrunk  by  usage  into  commonest  commonplace. 

Forward  rang  the  voices  then,  and  of  the  many  mine  was  one; 
Let  us  hush  this  cry  of  forward  till  ten  thousand  years  have  gone. 

Far  among  the  vanished  races  old  Assyrian  kings  would  flay 
Captives  whom  they  caught  in  battle, — iron-hearted  victors  they. 

Ages  afterwhile  in  Asia,  he  that  led  the  wild  MoguK, 

Timur,  built  his  ghastly  tower  of  eighty  thousand  human  skulls. 

Then  and  here  in  Edward's  time,  an  age  of  noblest  English  names, 
Christian  conquerors  took  and   flung  the  conquered  Christian  into  :1  imes. 

Love  your  enemy,  bless  your  haters,  said  the  Greatest  of  the  great ; 
Christian  love  among  the  churches  looked  the  twin  of  heathen  hate. 

From  the  golden  alms  of  blessing  man  has  coined  himself  a  curse; 
Rome  of  Csesar,  Rome  of  Peter — which  was  cruder,  which  was  worse? 

France  has  shown  a  light  to  all  men;  preached  a  gospel  all  men's  good. 
Celtic  Demos  rose  a  demon,  shrieked  and  stayed  the  light  with  blood. 

Hope  was  ever  on  her  mountain  watching  till  the  day  begun, 
Crowned  with  sunlight  over  darkness  from  the  still  unrisen  sun. 

Have  we  grown  at  last  beyond  the  passions  of  the  primal  clan  ? 
Kill  your  enemy,  for  you  hate  him?   Still,  your  enemy  was  a  man. 

Have  we  sunk  below  them?     Peasants  maim  the  helpless  horse,  and  drive 
Innocent  cattle  under  thatch  and  burn  the  kindlier  brutes  alive. 

Brutes!    The  brutes  are  not  your  wrongers,  burnt  at  midnight,  found  at 

morn, 
Twisted  hard  in  mortal  agony,  with  their  offspring  born  unborn 

Clinging  to  the  silent  mother.     Are  we  devils?     Are  we  men? 
Sweet  St.  Francis  of  Assissi — would  that  he  were  here  again; 

He  that  in  his  catholic  wholeness  used  to  call  the  very  flowers 
Sisters,  brothers,  and  the  beasts  whose  pains  are  hardly  less  than  ours. 


838  LOCKSLET  HALL  STXTT  TEARS  AFTER. 

Chaos,  cosmos!  Cosmos,  chaos!  Who  can  tell  how  all  will  end! 

Read  the  wide  world's  annals  you,  and  take  their  wisdom   for  your  friend. 

Hope  the  best,  but  hold  the  Present,  fatal  daughter  of  the  Past. 

Shape  your  heart  to  front  the  hour,  but  dream  not  that  the  hour  will  last. 

Aye,  if  dynamite  and  revolver  leave  you  courage  to  be  wise, 

When  was  age  so  crammed  with  menace,  madness,  written,  spoken  lies? 

Envy  wears  the  mask  of  love,  and,  laughing  sober  fact  to  scorn, 
Cries  to  weakest  as  to  strongest:  "Ye  are  equals,  equal  born.'' 

Equal  born?     Oh,  yes,  if  yonder  hill  be  level  with  the  flat, 
Charm  us,  orator,  till  the  lion  look  no  larger  than  the  cat; 

Till  the  cat,  through  that  mirage  of  overheated  language,  loom 
Larger  than  the  lion,  Demos  end  in  working  its  own  doom. 

Russia  bursts  our  Indian  barrier.     Shall  we  fight  her?     Shall  we  yield? 
Pause  before  you  sound  the  trumpet.     Hear  the  voices  from  the  field. 

Those  three  hundred  millions  under  one  imperial  scepter  now, 

Shall  we  hold  them?  Shall  we  loose  them?  Take  the  suffrage  of  the  plow  ? 

Nay,  but  these  would  feel  and  follow  truth,  if  only  you  and  you — 
Which  of  realm-ruining  party  when  you  speak — were  wholly  true. 

Plowmen,  shepherds  have  I  found,  and  more  than  once  and  still  could  find, 
Sons  of  God  arid  kings  of  men,  utter  nobleness  of  mind. 

Truthful,  trustful,  looking  upward  to  the  practiced  hustings  liar; 
So  the  higher  wields  the  lower,  while  the  lower  is  the  higher. 

Here  and  there  a  cotter's  babe  is  royal  born  by  right  divine, 
Here  and  there  my  lord  is  lower  than  his  oxen  or  his  swine. 

Chaos,  cosmos.     Cosmos,  chaos.     Once  again  the  sickening  game, 
Freedom  free  to  slay  herself,  and  dying  while  they  shout  her  name. 

Step  by  step  we  gained  a  freedom  known  to  Europe,  known  to  all; 
Step  by  step  we  rose  to  greatness;  through  the  tonguesters  we  may  fall. 

You  that  woo  the  voices  tell  them  old  Experience  is  a  fool ; 

Teach  your  flattered  kings  that  only  those  who  cannot  read  can  rule; 

Pluck  the  mighty  from  their  seat,  but  set  no  meek  ones  in  their  place; 
Pillory  Wisdom  in  your  markets;  pelt  your  offal  at  her  face; 

Tumble  Nature  heels  o'erhead,  and  yelling  with  the  yelling  street, 
Set  the  feet  above  the  brain,  and  swear  the  brain  is  in  the  feet ; 

Bring  the  old  dark  ages  back  without  the  faith,  without  the  hope ; 

Break  the  state,  the  church,  the  throne,  and  roll  their  ruins  down  the  slope. 

Author,  atheist,  essayist,  novelist,  realist,  rhymster,  play  your  part; 
Paint  the  mortal  shame  of  nature  with  the  living  hues  of  art; 


LOCKSLET  HALL  SIXTY  TEARS  AFTER.  839 

Rip  your  brothers'  vices  open;  strip  your  own  foul  passions  bare; 
Down  with   reticence,  down  with  reverence,  "forward,"  naked  let  them 
stare ; 

Feed  the  budding  rose  of  boyhood  with  the  drainage  of  your  sewer; 
Send  the  drain  into  the  fountain,  lest  the  stream  should  issue  pure ; 

Set  the  maiden  fancies  wallowing  in  the  troughs  of  Zolaism; 
Forward,  forward — aye  and  backward;  downward,  too,  into  the  abysm  ; 

Do  your  best  to  charm  the  worst,  to  lower  the  rising  race  of  men. 

Have  we  risen  from  without  the  beast?     Then  back  into  the  beast  again! 

Only  dust  to  dust  for  me  that  sicken  at  your  lawless  din; 

Dust  in  wholesome  old-world  dust  before  the  newer  world  begin. 

Heated  am  I,  you,  you  wonder?  Well,  it  scarce  becomes  mine  age; 
Patience!  Let  the  dying  actor  mouth  his  last  upon  the  stage; 

Cries  of  unprogressive  dotage  ere  the  graybeard  fall  asleep; 
Noises  of  a  current  narrowing,  not  the  music  of  a  deep. 

Ay !  For  doubtless  I  am  old,  and  think  gray  thoughts,  for  I  am  gray 
After  all  the  stormy  changes  shall  we  find  a  changeless  May? 

After  madness,  after  massacre,  Jacobinism,  and  Jacquerie, 
Some  diviner  force  to  guide  us  through  the  days  I  shall  not  see. 

When  the  schemes  and  all  the  systems,  kingdoms,  and  republics  fall, 
Something  kindlier,  higher,  holier — all  for  each,  and  each  for  all? 

All  the  full-brain,  half-brain  races  led  by  armistice,  love  and  truth? 
All  the  millions  at  length,  with  all  the  visions  of  my  youth? 

All  diseases  quenched  by  science,  no  man  halt  or  deaf  or  blind ; 
Stronger  ever  born  of  weaker,  lustier  body,  larger  mind? 

Earth  at  last  a  warless  world;  a  single  race,  a  single  tongue? 

I  have  seen  her  far  away,  for  is  not  Earth  as  yet  so  young? 

Every  tiger-madness  muzzled,  every  serpent-passion  killed; 

Every  grim  ravine  a  garden, every  blazing  desert  tilled? 

Robed  in  universal  harvest  up  to  either  pole  she  smiles; 

Universal  ocean  softly  washing  all  her  warless  isles. 

Warless  when  her  tens  are  thousands  and  her  thousands  millions  then ! 

All  her  harvests  all  too  narrow— who  can  fancy  warless  men  ? 

Warless  war  will  die  out  late;  then  will  it  ever,  late  or  soon? 

Can  it  till  this  outworn  earth  be  dead  as  yon  dead  world,  the  moon  ? 

Dead  the  new  astronomy  calls  her.     On  this  day,  and  at  this  hour, 

In  this  gap  behind  the  sandhills,  whence  you  see  the  Locksley  Tower, 

Here  we  met  our  latest  meeting,  Amy,  sixty  years  ago, 

She  and  I.     The  moon  was  failing  greenish  thro*  a  rosy  glow, 


840  LOCKS  LET  HALL  SIXTT  YEARS  AFTER. 

Just  above  the  gateway  tower,  and  even  where  you  see  her  now, 

Here  we  stood  and  clasped  each  other,  swore  the  seeming  deathless  vow. 

Dead?  But  how  her  living  glory  lights  the  hall,  the  dune,  the  grass. 
Yet  the  moonlight  is  the  moonlight  and  the  sun  himself  will  pass. 

Venus  near  her,  smiling  downward  at  this  earthlier  earth  of  ours, 
Closer  on  the  sun,  perhaps,  a  world  of  never-fading  flowers. 

Hesper,  whom  the  poet  called  Bringer  home  of  all  good  things — 
All  good  things  may  move  in  Hesper,  perfect  peoples,  perfect  kings. 

Hesper,  Venus,  were  we  native  to  that  splendor,  or  in  Mars, 

We  should  seethe  globe  we  groan  in  fairest  of  their  evening  stars. 

Could  we  dream  of  wars  and  carnage,  craft  and  madness,  lust  and  spite, 
Roaring  London,  raving  Paris, in  that  point  of  peaceful  light? 

Might  we  not  in  glancing  heavenward  on  a  star  so  silver  fair 
Yearn  and  clasp  the  hands  and  murmur:  "Would   to  God   that  we   were 
there?" 

Forward,  backward — backward,  forward — in  the  immeasurable  sea, 
Swayed  by  vaster  ebbs  and  flows  than  can  be  known  to  you  or  me. 

All  the  suns — are  these  but  symbols  of  innumerable  man, 
Man  or  mind  that  sees  a  shadow  of  the  Planner  or  the  plan? 

Is  there  evil  but  on  earth?     Or  pain  in  every  peopled  sphere? 
Well,  be  grateful  for  the  sounding  watchword,  evolution,  here. 

Evolution,  ever  climbing  after  some  ideal  good, 
And  reversion,  ever  dragging  evolution  in  the  mud. 

What  are  men  that  He  should  heed  us?  cried  the  king  of  sacred  song — 
Insects  of  an  hour  that  hourly  work  their  brother  insect  wrong. 

While  the  silent  heavens  roll,  and  suns  along  their  fiery  way, 
All  their  planets  whirling  round  them  flash  a  million  miles  a  day. 

Many  an  eon  molded  earth  before  her  highest  man  was  born; 
Many  an  eon,  too,  may  pass  when  earth  is  manless  and  forlorn; 

Earth,  so  huge  and  yet  so  bounded,  pools  of  salt  and  plots  of  land, 
Shallow  skin  of  green  and  azure,  chains  of  mountains,  grains  of  sand. 

Only  that  which  made  us  meant  us  to  be  mightier  by  and  by, 

Set  the  sphere  of  all  the  boundless  heavens  within  the  human  eye; 

Sent  the  shadow  of  Himself,  the  Boundless,  through  the  human  soul, 
Boundless  inward  in  the  atom,  boundless  outward  in  the  whole. 

Here  is  Locksley  Hall,  my  grandson,  here  my  lion-guarded  gate. 
Not  to-night  in  Locksley  Hall,  to-morrow  you,  you  come  so  late. 

Wrecked  your  train,  or  all  but  wrecked,  a  shattered  wheel,  a  vicious  boy. 
Good  this  "Forward"  you  that  preach  it?  Is  it  wel)  to  wish  you  joy? 


LOCKSLBY  HALL  SIXTT  TEARS  AFTER.  841 

Is  it  well  that  while  we  range  with  science,  glorying  the  time, 
City  children  soak  and  blacken  soul  and  sense  in  city  slime? 

There  among  the  glooming  alleys  Progress  halts  on  palsied  feet, 
Crime  and  Hunger  cast  our  maidens  by  the  thousand  on  the  street; 

There  the  master  scrimps  his  haggard  sempstress  of  her  daily  bread ; 
There  a  single  sordid  attic  holds  the  living  and  the  dead; 

There  the  smouldering  fire  of  fever  creeps  across  the  rotted  floor, 
And  the  crowded  couch  of  incest  in  the  warrens  of  the  poor. 

Nay,  your  pardon.     Cry  your  forward,  yours  are  hope  and  youth;  but  I — 
Eighty  winters  leave  the  dog  too  lame  to  follow  with  the  cry. 

Lame  and  old,  and  past  his  time  and  passing  now  into  the  night, 
Yet  I  would  the  rising  race  were  half  as  eager  for  the  light. 

Light  the  fading  gleam  of  even,  light  the  glimmer  of  the  dawn; 
Aged  eyes  may  take  the  growing  glimmer  for  the  gleam  withdrawn. 

Far  away  beyond  her  myriad  coming  changes  earth  will  be 
Something  other  than  the  wildest  modern  guess  of  you  and  me. 

Earth  may  reach  her  earthly  worst,  or  if  she  gain  her  earthly  best, 
Would  she  find  her  human  offspring — this  ideal  man — at  rest? 

Forward  then;  but  still  remember  how  the  course  of  time  will  swerve 
Crook,  and  turn  upon  itself  in  many  a  backward,  streaming  curve. 

Not  the  Hall  to-night,  my  grandson,  death  and  silence  hold  their  own* 
Leave  the  master  in  the  first  dark  hour  of  his  last  sleep  alone. 

Worthier  soul  was  he  than  I  am,  sound  and  honest  rustic  squire, 
Kindly  landlord,  boon  companion.     Youthful  jealousy  is  a  liar. 

Cast  the  poison  from  your  bosom!  Oust  the  madness  from  your  brain  I 
Let  the  tangled  serpent  show  you  that  you  have  not  lived  in  vain. 

Youthful  youth  and  age  are  scholars  yet,  but  in  the  lower  school 
Not  is  he  the  wisest  man  who  never  proved  himself  a  fool. 

Yonder  lies  our  young  sea  village — art  and  grace  are  less  and  less, 
Science  grows,  and  beauty  dwindles — roofs  of  slated  hideousness. 

There  is  one  old  hostel  left  us  where  they  swing  the  Locksley  shield 
Till  the  peasant  cow  shall  butt  the  lion  passant  from  his  field. 

Poor  old  Heraldry,  poor  old  History,  poor  old  Poetry  passing  hence, 
In  the  common  deluge  drowning  old  political  common-sense. 

Poor  old  voice  of  eighty  crying  after  voices  that  have  fled; 
All  I  loved  are  vanished  voices;  all  my  steps  are  on  the  dead. 

All  the  world  is  ghost  to  me,  and,  as  the  phantom  disappears, 
Forward  far  and  far  from  here  is  all  the  hope  of  eighty  yean. 


842  LOCKS  LET  HALL  SIXTT  TEARS  AFTER. 


In  this  hostel  I  remember — I  repent  it  o'er  his  grave — 

Like  a  clown — by  chance  he  met  me — 1  refused  the  hand  he  gave. 

From  that  casement  where  the  trailer  mantles  all  the  moldering  bricks— 
I  was  then  in  early  boyhood,  Edith  but  a  child  of  six — 

While  I  sheltered  in  this  archway  from  a  day  of  driving  showers, 
Passed  the  winsome  face  of  Edith,  like  a  flower  among  the  flowers. 

Here  to-night,  the  hall  to-morrow.     When  they  toll  the  chapel  bell 
Shall  I  hear  in  one  dark  room  a  wailing,  "  I  have  loved  thee  well"  ? 

Then  a  peal  that  shakes  the  portal?     One  has  come  to  claim  his  bride, 
Her  that  shrank  and  put  me  from  her,  shrieked  and  started  from  my  side? 

Silent  echoes.     You,  my  Leonard,  use  and  not  abuse  your  day ; 
Move  among  your  people,  know  them;  follow  him  who  led  the  way. 

Strove  for  sixty  widowed  years  to  help  his  homelier  brother  men, 

Served  the  poor  and  built  the  cottage,  raised  the  school  and  drained  the  fen. 

Hears  he  now  the  voice  that  wronged  him?  Who  shall  swear  it  cannot  be? 
Earth  would  never  touch  her  worst  were  one  in  fifty  such  as  he. 

Ere  she  gain  her  heavenly  rest  a  God  must  mingle  with  the  game; 
Nay,  there  may  be  those  about  us  whom  we  neither  see  nor  name, 

Felt  within  us  as  ourselves,  the  powers  of  good,  the  powers  of  ill, 
Strewing  balm  or  shedding  poison  in  the  fountains  of  the  will. 

Follow  you  the  star  that  lights  a  desert  pathway,  yours  and  mine; 
Foward!  till  you  see  the  highest — human  nature  is  divine. 

Follow  light  and  do  the  right — for  man  can  half  control  his  doom — 
Till  you  find  the  deathless  angel  seated  in  the  vacant  tomb. 

Forward !  Let  the  stormy  moment  fly  and  mingle  with  the  past, 

I,  that  loathed,  have  come  to  love  him;  love  will  conquer  at  the  last. 

Gone  at  eighty,  mine  own  age, — and  I  and  you  will  bear  the  pall ; 
Then  I  leave  thee,  lord  and  master,  latest  lord  of  Locksley  Hall. 


CROSSIXG   THE  BAR. 


843 


CROSSING  THE  BAR. 


UNSET  and  evening  star, 
And  one  clear  call  for  me) 
Vnd  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 
When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep. 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark; 


For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 


■"M    *fr  ,-* 


feSr 


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